


The Worst Thing I Ever Did

by RemainNameless



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Derek, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Canon-Typical Violence, Comeplay, D/s themes, Dubious Consent, Everyone Is An Asshole, Finger Sucking, Fingerfucking, Frottage, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Jossed, M/M, Marking, Mutual Masturbation, Non-Negotiated Kink, Not the PWP you're looking for, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Rimming, Rough Sex, Tentative Allies with Benefits, but they work it out in the end, post 3x03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:39:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemainNameless/pseuds/RemainNameless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles would say his relationship with Derek is about fifteen percent empty threats, thirty percent sass, ten percent avoiding violence together, and five percent eyebrows.<br/>If anyone asked, he would say the remaining forty percent is mutual orgasms.</p>
<p>It’s a good thing no one ever asks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You must be a football coach the way you got me playing the field

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: this was written at the beginning of the season, so it contains virgin sacrifices, ooc Cora, and no Darach or Jennifer.
> 
> Overall work inspired by this Buddy Wakefield's "We Were Emergencies":  
> "repeat after me with your heart:
> 
> “I no longer need you to fuck me as hard as I hated myself.”
> 
> Make love to me  
> like you know I am better  
> than the worst thing I ever did." 
> 
> Chapter title from R. Kelly's "Remix to Ignition". (may have listened to it over 80 times in a row shhh)
> 
> WARNINGS AT END.  
> NOT AS MUY IMPORTANTE FOR THIS CHAPTER BUT I STRONGLY ADVISE IT LATER IF DUBCON IS NOT YOUR CUP OF TEA.  
> Going by the idea that full consent is not only implied but verbalized, this fic is, overall, mostly dubcon. I will give full descriptions of levels of consent in the warnings. :)

It all sort of happens on accident. 

For reasons. A lot of reasons. Most of them Stiles isn’t too sure about, but he knows that since the beginning, it’s had something to do with Chris Argent being involved.

The problem with Chris Argent being involved is that he’s weird about Scott. Has been from the start. Not only does he totally see through the “Oh, no, sir, we’ve moved on” but he’s actually, for reasons unknown, starting to _like_ Scott now. So Scott’s at the Argents’ having the most awkward dinner ever, considering that his texts are saying that Chris is actually trying to _set him up with Allison_ , which means that Scott’s spending all dinner trying to apologize to her for it. 

And Stiles, well, Stiles is where he always is when Scott’s having uncomfortable dinners with Allison — stuck with a sulky werewolf. At least this time there’s no life-or-death situation. Not that anyone would know by the way Derek’s carrying on.

“ _Seriously_ , Stiles, just _go away_.” 

Stiles sighs, looking up from the book Peter left for him. “Dude. _I_ need to read this, and _you_ won’t let me take the book home. Your fault that I’m here, big guy.” 

“Whatever,” Derek mutters darkly, like he’s about thirteen and pretending he hates his mom. Who, in this situation, might be Stiles. Which is kind of an uncomfortable thing for reasons. (Derek’s a hottie with a body, alright, Stiles is _very_ aware of that, and even a hypothetical pseudo-Oedipal angle is freaky deaky.) 

“When’s Cora coming back? She was getting a pizza, right?”

“ _No_ , she said she was getting a _Hawaiian,_ ” Derek says, like this is incredibly meaningful.

Stiles sighs, leaning back in his chair. “And what, exactly, is so portentous about pineapple and ham?”

“It’s _code_ , idiot,” Derek says like he’s about two seconds from throwing himself dramatically onto some horizontal surface. “She’s not coming back tonight.”

The look Stiles gives him is, after a good minute, enough to get him to explain.

“It’s a…thing. For personal space. Laura made it up on accident. If we ever needed a break from the family, we’d just say we were getting a Hawaiian. You know, like a vacation.”

“So, what you’re saying is that I’m not getting any pizza tonight,” Stiles says with a heavy sigh. _Damn_. He’s _hungry_. Well, he’s always a little hungry, unless he’s taken his Adderall in the last couple hours. Right now, he could probably put away a pizza by himself. 

“You could always _leave_ ,” Derek offers. 

“Not until I can figure out what the _hell_ kind of thing is going after virgins, dude. Heather…I was there, okay, I was right there and I couldn’t protect her, so it’s my responsibility to figure out what took her.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, but he wanders over to the secondhand couch and sprawls like he’s the king of his fucking abandoned hovel. There’s a _hole_ in the wall, alright, and that’s not exactly what you’d call _nice digs_ , but he gets so _proud_ of the place. Whenever they’re here, he, like, _struts around_ his stupid werewolf territory—

Okay, so Stiles is a little pissy. He’s been reading this book (a _handwritten_ book with shitty script penmanship) for, like, four hours, since he left school, basically, and he’s gotten nothing except a massive headache and the munchies. Not even the good kind of munchies. And he’s fucking tired of doing this. He needs a _break_ , for his eyes and his brain. 

Derek should have let him just take the book home. Because then he could have a Stilinski Study Break and get right back on track. But for some reason, he thinks that jerking off within like a mile of Derek would probably be equivalent to asking for a slow death, so he’s not going to do it. Obviously. That would be really stupid. 

It would make his headache go away, though. And a post-jerk off snack is the best kind of snack. 

_No_. There’s absolutely no way to get away with it, anyway. It’s not like he can just duck into the bathroom for a few minutes. Derek would _kill_ him. There’s no way—

“Hey, how far can you hear? Like, what’s your range?”

Derek lifts his head up and eyes Stiles suspiciously. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just _hypothetically_ , jeez. I’m just procrasturb— _procrastinating,_ ” he says, and no, he does _not_ blush because he’s sixteen, and a sixteen year old boy’s best friend is his dick, and he’s not going to be ashamed of that enduring love. Or his Freudian Slips.

“See, and _this_ is why you can’t take the book home,” Derek says, like _this is why you can’t have nice things_. “It’s a family heirloom and I don’t want it to be covered in jizz stains.” 

Stiles chokes and yeah, he goes a little flushed. “Hey, I have _way_ better aim than that, thank you very much.” He crosses his hands over his chest like he’s not uncomfortable. “I’m a little offended, actually.”

“Well, I guess you’ve had plenty of practice,” Derek cracks and _oh my God_ , he’s making jokes about masturbating. And Stiles is going to pretend he’s not at all interested in the pants area because thoughts of touching penises plus Derek usually means a happy ending for him.

Not that he jerks off to his not-enemy/sort-of-ally.

Well, not that he’d admit it to anyone _ever_.

“Practice makes perfect,” Stiles says primly. “Anyway, I don’t think you have room to talk. Your bachelor pad hasn’t exactly been put to use, has it?”

“Oh, _shut up_.” Derek gets up and heads into the not-kitchen. Not a kitchen because it’s not even _enclosed_ , it’s just, like, four feet of counter, a fridge, shitty microwave, and a coffee maker. Stiles makes sure his _sims_ are better equipped than this, alright. It’s just _sad_. 

No, what’s sad is how Stiles watches Derek’s back when he opens the fridge and bends a little to get something from the middle shelf, wonders if that’s how he bends into himself when he gets himself off, or if he arches instead, which Stiles has a great visual of, even though he’s not sure what it says about him that he once popped a boner when someone was maybe dying. 

(It says he’s kind of fucked up, but hey, he already knew that.)

“Jesus Christ, Stiles,” Derek says as he crosses the room with a Gatorade. “You have hands. You can just take care of _that_.” He waves a hand in the general direction of Stiles Jr. Yeah, okay, Stiles looks down, just to check, and you can’t _tell_ that he’s mostly hard, okay? 

“How can you even _tell_?” Stiles ask. Does Derek have special boner senses? Do they tingle? And _where_ , exactly, would that tingling be happening?

Derek gives him a dry look. “I can smell you from across the room, idiot. Why don’t you go do something about it so it doesn’t reek like horny boy in here?”

“I don’t need your permission to jerk off, you know.” He shifts a little, adjusting himself because even though he should be totally mortified right now, his dick is starting to throb a little. Yeah, he has a problem with fear responses. His are broken or something. 

“Then just fucking _do it_ so I can take a nap without _suffocating_.” 

“Where? I mean, do I have to go outside? Or can I just use your bathroom?”

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. “ _Anywhere_.”

That’s totally the wrong thing to say because he’s pretty sure it makes his dick twitch in his pants because _anywhere_ could be _right here_ or _on your bed_ and fuck, this is really messed up. This is going to be one of those things they don’t talk about, like when they were paralyzed and Stiles totally unintentionally (because he was _paralyzed_ , dammit) touched Little Derek and well, Stiles does have something of an understanding of what a limp dick feels like, and that was _not_ exactly soft. There were no nails in danger of being pounded or anything, but Little Derek might have been perusing the hardware section.

It’s been thirteen hours since his last Adderall, he has more of a boner than he’ll ever admit to under water torture, and Derek said _anywhere_. 

And he didn’t take it back. 

He’s not going to jerk off in the middle of Derek’s loft. That’s _way_ unclassy and weird and he’s not into being murdered. Maybe shoved against a wall a little and threatened some, but not _killed_. So Stiles does the smart thing and he gets up, zeroing in on the bathroom, and very casually adjusts the goods as he goes. 

“ _You better open a window!_ ” Derek calls and Stiles takes that to heart. It’s the least he can do. 

Only the fucking window won’t open. 

And every time he tries, the corner of the sink presses against his junk and he’s making an _effort_ not to just grind against it. But the fucking window is, like, _welded_ shut. 

“Can I just _break_ the window instead?” Stiles yells because he’s going to murder this window dead. It’s the one thing standing in the way of his hand and his dick coming into sweet, sweet contact, and it’s going to pay.

“Do I have to do everything myself?” Derek grumbles and heh, Stiles has a little image of telling him _yes_ , and also _my hands aren’t working, can I borrow yours_? Okay, but he’s not going to do that, obviously, because he values his life.

When Derek leans over the sink to work on the window, it’s like his ass is on display and his jeans, Christ, his _jeans_ are painted on, aren’t they? There’s no way a person could actually pull on jeans that tight, like, Stiles can see _musculature_ and fuck, okay, Derek’s back is to him, he’s not able to see that Stiles has to press the heel of his palm into his crotch to tell his dick to _calm the fuck down_. 

But Derek’s shoulders rise a little, and he says, “Seriously? Could you not wait, like, _two minutes_?” 

Which means that Derek thinks he’s getting himself off right now (he’s _not_ ) and that’s a little offensive. He’s not _that_ thirsty, Christ. 

But that also means that Derek’s reaction to him getting himself off not two feet away is just to complain that he couldn’t wait a little while longer, and that is _interesting_. Must be a werewolf thing. They must have different personal space rules for jerking it. Or something. 

Stiles is not going to do anything based on that theory.

He’s not.

Okay, he just thumbs open his button. That’s nothing. Everything is still one hundred percent covered. It’s no big deal. Sometimes if he and Scott go too crazy at the five dollar Chinese buffet, they’ll go for the zipper, too. For breathing room.

He’s not going to go for the zipper. This is not the Chinese buffet. This is the Derek buffet and Stiles wants a plate of that. 

Shit, he’s got no game. It’s a really fucking good thing he doesn’t accidentally say his thoughts out loud because he would probably never get laid for the rest of his life for that line. 

Derek bangs his hand on the window, not hard enough to break it, and makes a noise of utter frustration. “You know what? The window can go fuck itself,” he says, and just hangs his head over the sink. “For the love of— Stiles, can you just put it away? I can’t—“

“Dude, everything’s in the pants,” he says, hands up defensively. Derek looks at him over his shoulder, even though he can tell that Stiles isn’t lying. 

“Well, it doesn’t _smell_ like you’re wearing pants.”

“So you can totally smell my dick right now,” Stiles says, smirking a little, “because that’s good. I mean, in case I ever come home at five in the morning and you think something’s going on.” Derek gives him a look then, just a hint of the old Alpha eyes. 

“I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about, but you need to shut up and _do something_ about that.” His hands grip the edges of the sink, knuckles popping white, and Stiles just stands there. Because he’s not sure if that means he needs to will his boner away or put his hand in his pants and he’s really not sure what’s going on here, why Derek is still standing there, why Derek is standing there and not looking at him, or why all of this has him so hard he just wants to make some sort of noise. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Derek hisses, and he’s breathing deep, slow, like he’s trying to control himself, and fuck it, Stiles has no idea what that means, but his fingers find his zipper and _pull_. Slow, but even Stiles can hear the tab knock against each of the teeth. There’s a sharp inhale, almost like a _whine_ , and Derek shifts his hips a little against the sink. Like it’s _involuntary_. 

Shit, that shouldn’t be so hot, but Stiles is pretty sure his dick pulses out a drop or two at that. 

_That_ ’s a whine alright, and Stiles is about to say something (who fucking knows what) when Derek spins around and yanks Stiles in by the belt loops, then jerks his pants down. Stiles makes a stumbling noise, and he’s weirdly embarrassed because whatever this is is happening and because the head of his dick is poking out of the slot in his boxers. When Derek rubs his thumb against it, Stiles groans, head dropping to his shoulder. 

Derek just slides that thumb over him, presses against the slit a little. Even if his thumb wasn’t shiny, Stiles would know it was wet by the way it goes so easy, slick. 

“Are you _always_ this wet?” Derek asks, and it sounds like it’s supposed to be rude or something, but it breaks in the back of his throat. He trades his thumb for the palm of his hand and just _coats_ his hand in Stiles’ pre-come. 

Yeah, that’s too fucking much.

Gasping, Stiles nods into the junction of Derek’s neck and shoulder. “You gonna do something, or are you just gonna play with it?” he asks cockily, trying to regain a fraction of his dignity.

“ _Fucker_ ,” Derek hisses, but he pushes Stiles’ boxers down below his balls and gives him a rough stroke that makes Stiles _keen_ and tip forward onto his toes. His hand is slick enough that it doesn’t quite chafe, but it’s just a little sticky. It’s a good sort of friction, the kind that makes him get off fast. Not that he needs any help there. 

Stiles looks down between them at his cock disappearing in Derek’s fist, fuck, his _fist._ This might be a dream, a fucked up memory trick of the Alphas, but it’s hot like burning. The outline of Derek’s dick is making his mouth water, like, _almost_ to the point of drooling. He’s proportionately big. Of fucking course he is. And he probably fucks like a porn star. 

At that thought, and at Derek’s thumb smearing some more of his pre-come around, he whines a little. In a manly way. 

His fingers are apparently twisted in Derek’s t-shirt, but he lets go and palms Derek through his jeans. Yeah, _that’s_ something Stiles wants to get to know a lot better. He’s thick and hot and when he grinds against Stiles’ hand, he groans in a beautiful way. He does everything in a beautiful way, and that’s the worst part. He is what he is and what he is is too beautiful and dangerous and fucked up and _mean_ for Stiles, and even when Stiles realizes that he’s about to come, he’s thinking about how this is never going to happen again. 

But he comes all over the chest of Derek’s shirt and all over his hand, and Derek pulls him through it just past the point of too much, until his hand is sticky and white and Stiles is fighting for breath against his collarbone. He allows himself four deep breaths before he pulls away. With a little noise, Derek wipes his hand on his shirt. 

Stiles goes for his zipper before he loses his courage or his afterglow. Hands close around his wrists and Stiles looks up. Derek’s eyes are flickering red. 

“It’s only fair,” Stiles tells him, and Derek presses against his hands a little.

“It’s _fine_.”

Stiles gives him a look. “Dude, the blue balls are gonna be murder. Let me give you a hand.” He smirks at himself for that one. With a roll of the eyes, Derek lets go, grabbing the sides of the sink instead. The position juts his hips out a little. When Stiles unbuttons his jeans, the zipper ratchets down the first inch or so on its own. Left-handed, he does the rest of the way while he licks his right hand. With a groan, Derek’s head falls back. 

There’s a crack as the sink loosening from the wall when Stiles finally wraps his hand around Derek’s dick. It’s a beautiful dick. Most aren’t, and Stiles admits that as someone who’s pretty fond of them in general, but his is _nice_. It’s thick, uncut, though, and Stiles has only gotten his hands on his own, so _that’s_ different. The way his hand slides up and down is different, but he doesn’t get a great working knowledge of it because on the third upstroke, when he swipes his thumb across the head, Derek comes. With a strange fascination, Stiles jerks each pulse of jizz from him. It’s the first time he’s seen someone else come in real life and yeah, maybe he’d like to have watched Derek’s face for it, but this isn’t like that. It’s not a tender moment. It’s just a couple of orgasms. 

Derek’s shirt is a lost cause. 

“You should really go change that,” Stiles tells him as elbows him in the ribs to get at the sink. He turns on the faucet to clean his hand when Derek moves, glances over his shoulder to see if he’s watching; he’s looking down at shirt. Stiles moves, very casually and very subtly, to lick his hand. Derek’s come tastes mostly like his own, but it’s a _little_ different. He can’t risk a second taste, even for science reasons, because he gets the feeling that’s not a totally cool thing to do, so he washes his hands really good while Derek goes and changes his shirt.

After, Stiles makes sure he looks normal and he gets to work; in another hour, he should be halfway through the book, and then he’ll give himself permission to go home. 


	2. More wit, a better kiss, a hotter touch, a better fuck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from Panic! At The Disco's "Lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off".
> 
> Warnings at the end, lovelies!!!

Stiles assumes that it’s a one-time thing.

For obvious reasons.

In a moment of temporary insanity, dicks were touched. It happens. Well, not to Stiles, or at least not until now, apparently. 

Obviously, he’s not going to _tell_ anyone about it. They’d probably think he’s confusing wet dreams with reality again. And Scott would probably judge him a lot for having those dreams. Because they might be more or less okay with each other, but Scott doesn’t _like_ Derek, not really, and he wouldn’t get why Stiles would want to get all up on that. That would be because Scott’s straight and is busy pining over Allison anyway, and he’s got _morals_. He’s not like Stiles, who is more than willing to get all up on someone he doesn’t particularly like.

Alright, he doesn’t _dis_ like Derek. He can be fun. Seriously. He and Peter are the only people Stiles knows who can keep up with him, and Peter needs to fuck off and die, so that leaves Derek. And yes, there’s usually more threatening and goading involved in their conversations than anyone else he’s ever met, but it works for them. 

It works for Stiles. In a boner-inducing way. 

That’s probably a Lydia thing. His response to being ignored or insulted became arousal, and being threatened apparently falls into that category of inappropriate-boner-friendly interactions. And to be totally honest, Derek doesn’t _really_ threaten him. Sometimes there’s an off-hand remark or two that’ll imply physical harm, but it’s not like he _does_ anything about it. Or like he ever would.

The point is, in absolutely no way does Stiles ever think that their hands-on fun is ever going to be acknowledged anywhere other than his special Stiles time. 

 

So when it happens again, he’s _confused,_ to say the least.

 

Stake-outs are a neutral level of fun. Stiles is good at watching and not _horrible_ at waiting for things, so with some quiet music playing, he can handle a stake-out. 

But that’s by himself. With other people, it’s a very different story.

The Alphas have a weird thing for Derek, so it’s been unanimously agreed that he’s not to go within five hundred yards of them. Stiles is, of course, the human, and he’s basically limited to some cool mountain ash tricks, so _he_ ’s generally not allowed to tag along on the fun dangerous things. Not that they’re really fun. He’d just prefer to be there and think he has a chance of saving his friends’ lives than sitting in his Jeep with a pair of binoculars trained on the old bank. 

And he’d _really_ prefer to not be in said Jeep with Derek, who doesn’t need binoculars because the fucker has _special eyes_ or some other werewolf bullshit. 

He’s looking at the bank. Definitely not at the way Derek’s thighs look all splayed out because he’s slouching. Jesus, the _muscle_ he has…Stiles wants to put his mouth on them, wants to sit on them and feel them flex beneath his hands. 

Nope.

He’s looking at the bank. The bank is terribly interesting. There’s just so much going on that he can see. Wow. 

Derek’s fingers drum against the window ledge, and the noise makes Stiles look, and there are his thighs again. Seriously, he’s gotta go through a tube of KY to get those on in the morning. They’re like jeggings. Only sexier. Because Derek would never ever in a million years wear jeggings, no sir. Only they’re so _tight_ , maybe they are. He needs to know, is the thing. For reasons. 

“I’m pretty sure it helps if your binoculars are actually pointing up,” Derek says with a stupid sort of smugness. 

“Well, I was just…nevermind. Not doing that anymore. Nope.”

Derek snorts. “Do I get a dollar the next time you look at my dick, then?”

“I wasn’t looking at your _dick_ ,” Stiles tells him loftily. Because he wasn’t. He’s better than that.

“Oh really?”

Stiles nods. “ _Really_.”

“What were you looking at, then?” he asks like he’s exhausted with the conversation and absolutely doesn’t care at all. Derek’s very good at feigning apathy, but Stiles is good at finding people’s tells. 

“If you _must_ know,” Stiles says, “I was trying to figure out if you were wearing jeggings.” There’s this weird sound and Stiles realizes that Derek’s _laughing_. Not for long, just for a second or two, but that’s a _laugh_. Preteen emo king can _laugh_. Who knew?

“They’re not _jeggings_. Jesus, Stiles.”

Stiles gives him a suspicious look. “Yeah? Because there’s no way in physics that you could put on jeans that tight without busting the seams. They’ve gotta be jeggings. Give it up, man. I know your secret.”

“They’re not—“ He cuts off with a frustrated noise and grabs Stiles’ hand and slaps it on his thigh, about halfway between groin and knee. And yeah, that’s denim, but Stiles knew that. He just wanted to see what Derek would do. Which is, apparently, dragging his hand across his jeans. “See? Told you,” he says petulantly. 

But Stiles doesn’t say anything because his hand is still on Derek’s thigh, and Derek’s hand is still on his, and together, they’re creeping up and towards his inseam. 

It’s not because Stiles is sixteen. It’s not. He’s just having a very natural physical reaction to touching the thigh of someone as hot as Derek. (Hot like the fucking _sun_.) It’s totally natural, alright, and he’s not going to feel bad about it. 

He feels a tiny bit bad about it, but when he looks up at Derek’s face, that completely evaporates. Because _that_ is the smuggest, most assholish, stupidest smirk Stiles has ever seen in his life. Actually the _most_ aggravating facial expression he’s ever seen, and he’s had to interact with Peter on multiple occasions. Derek _knows_ he’s hot like the motherfucking sun, and he _knows_ that he really just has to _look_ at him right to get Stiles going, and he’s so _full of himself_. 

“I really hate you,” Stiles tells him as he goes for Derek’s fly. “You’re my least favorite person, including your uncle.” He draws Derek’s dick out of his pants and yeah, it’s just as good as he remembers. 

“Wow, talk dirty to me,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. With an annoyed sigh, Stiles surveys the situation, sees the likelihood of carpal tunnel, and decides that this isn’t going to work. 

When he leans over, he catches Derek’s little inhaled breath and smirks. Yeah, Stiles isn’t stupid enough to attempt his first blowjob in a car. That’s just _asking_ for a dislocated jaw. But he does recline Derek’s seat a little, enough that he can climb on top of Derek’s lap. It’s a fucking nice place to be, alright? It’s a good lap. And when Derek shifts, Stiles can feel his thigh muscles clenching beneath him and it’s hot as fuck. 

“Alright, werewolf super powers, you keep your eyes on the bank or I’m so done.” It’s why they’re here, after all, and Stiles will feel bad if something big happens and he misses it because he’s distracted by the miracle of Derek’s body. 

Derek nods, then he’s such a stupid asshole that he thinks it’s a good idea to take off his shirt. (It probably _is_ a good idea. Stiles might have Wet Wipes in his glove compartment, but he knows from experience that they don’t get jizz out of cotton.) This just means that Stiles is totally exempt from any and all keeping watch. There are _abs_ and _pecs_ in front of him that don’t exist outside of porn, so his eyes are fucking busy. 

Derek shifts— no, fuck that, he _thrusts_ up at Stiles, as if Stiles could somehow forget that the Mona Penis is right there. 

Okay, so that’s not a good one. _Sue him_. 

“You’re going pre-verbal? Cute. Really cute. I bet that gets you _all_ the action,” Stiles says, mostly to give him time to decide where he wants to put his hands first. His left goes to brush against a nipple because Derek has nice nipples, that’s a thing, and he spits in his right. 

Derek’s cock is hot in his hand and a lot harder than it was a minute ago. Stiles twists his hand, getting his spit all around, and marvels at how it’s almost the same but so, so, so, so not. The curve is different. Stiles is used to feeling his dick curving towards him, but the angle reverses it. That, and _foreskin_. It changes how his grip feels, and it’s supposed to mean Derek’s more sensitive at the tip. He’ll have to try it. 

Except he’s going a little crazy maybe because it’s very possible that his dick is going to burst out of his jeans like the motherfucking Hulk which might be a little impressive but probably embarrassing in the long run. Somehow, he drags his hand from Derek’s chest and works on getting himself out. His hand stays steady on Derek though, and the coordination is asking a little much from him alright and—

 _Fuck_ , that’s better. 

Yeah, he groans at it, at finally getting a hand on himself, like he’s fucking desperate for it, but he kind of is. It’s not his fault. He can’t help but react. Derek’s hand slips up to his thigh, but when Stiles looks, he’s still staring in the direction of the bank. 

“How do you like it?” he asks, cursing that he didn’t spend the time becoming ambidextrous because his left hand just isn’t quite doing it. “Not the Dick Whisperer, here.” Derek snorts, half-smiling for a split second before he bites his lip. Then there’s a hand wrapping around Stiles’, a little tighter, picking up the pace.

“Like this,” Derek says. His hand is hot, not quite sweaty, but it covers Stiles’ completely. Stiles gets the message, gets a little tighter, and when he rubs against the head, he’s rewarded by Derek swearing and arching into him, eyes flashing red. That _does things_ to Stiles. His dick pretty much _weeps_ at it, but he lets his own needs take a backseat. With a groan, he spits in his right hand again and keeps going.

Derek’s an asshole, so the idea of seeing him just totally _come apart_? Yeah, that’s something he wants. He wants Derek to come so hard it’ll make him _stupid_ , wants him to lose control, just once. In a non-maiming way. 

It’s hot and Stiles should probably take off his shirt just for heat reasons, but he’s not sure if his body will help his cause. Maybe, but he’s not going to chance it. So he strokes Derek the way he likes, adding a little twist here and there to hear his breath hitch. The hand he pulls away from his own dick is a little wet with his pre-come, so he twists and rubs his palm across the head of Derek’s. That gets him a little whimper and the hand on his thigh tightens. 

“You like that?” he asks, grinning. 

“Fuck off,” Derek tells him. Oh, that’s cute. 

Stiles hums. “Yeah? Should I stop, then?” He stops mid-stroke, just keeps his hand wrapped around him near the tip. Derek looks at him then, _glares_ , really, and Stiles pops his eyebrows, a challenge. 

What he’s expecting is for Derek to ask him to continue in a very angry, backwards way, but what he _gets_ pretty kills him. And that’s Derek fucking into his fist, braced against his feet and shoulders, gotta be, but Stiles doesn’t really pay too much attention to that because _Derek is lifting his full weight up_. Stiles is completely on top of him, no room for anything else and _Derek is able to lift him_.

Yeah, so Stiles makes an embarrassing noise about that and Derek’s smirk says he thinks he’s won. And okay, watching the way his abs are contracting as he moves, yeah, he’s won. He’s won basically everything ever in the history of the world. If there were a sex Olympics, Derek just won gold in every division. And Stiles isn’t even going to be embarrassed about how his dick leaks all over Derek when he has to lean over, bracing himself against the roof. 

Shit, they’ve gotta be rocking the car. _Stiles’ Jeep is rocking for sex reasons_. Jesus. This is like Hanukah. This is _better_ than Hanukah.

He shifts a little, letting out a strangled noise when he slots his dick against Derek. Derek’s hips stutter a little at that, and Stiles gets his hand around both of them. He’s leaking all over both of them, it’s a fucking mess, holy God, and it’s probably the hottest thing in his life _ever_. 

“How long can you keep this up?” Stiles pants, rocking into Derek’s thrusts. 

“ _Long enough,_ ” Derek grits out. He’s not looking at Stiles, but he’s definitely not unaffected. And not from exertion, no he’s biting at his lips, making an obvious effort to watch the bank. Which is what he’s supposed to be doing. But Stiles needs him to not be able to. Just for what that would mean. So he drops his left hand, finds one of Derek’s and brings it to his face. Derek snorts, and fuck him, he’s not trying to be _tender_ or some bullshit. So Stiles does what he means to do: he sucks Derek’s thumb into his mouth. 

Derek’s eyes snap to him. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” he hisses, watching as Stiles bobs on his thumb, then licks the web between it and his first finger, then takes _that_ his mouth. Derek thrusts up against him faster, harder. As a reward, he takes in the middle finger, too, and when he knows it’ll fit, the ring finger. They’re big fingers, and he tries not to let his eyes roll back into his head because he’s _there_ , he’s at that level of turned on and stupid. And it’s all totally worth it anyway for the look on Derek’s face, like he’s about to _die_ or come or maybe both. 

The way he’s jerking up now is telling and _thank God_ because Stiles is _not_ going to last a heck of a lot longer. Derek’s fingers stroke his tongue for a second, then he slips them in and out, that totally gone look in his eyes, and Stiles pulls them out before he starts moaning around them. 

“You’re supposed to be watching the _bank_ ,” he says, voice a little rougher than he’d like to admit. He pairs it with tight grip and twist around their cocks. The guilty way Derek’s eyes snap to the bank makes something swell in his chest, and he mouths at Derek’s palm for a second before saying, “ _Good boy_.” Derek’s hips buck up and that’s apparently _it_ for him because he shoots white practically up to his _chin_ and shit, Stiles can’t take that. The fact that _that’s_ a hair-trigger for him? It takes him a single stroke before Stiles is there too, and he just jerks them both through it, coming in bursts all over Derek’s stomach. 

Stiles sits there for a moment, breathing deep, while Derek catches his breath. Because he’s _out of breath_. That’s something _Stiles_ did. Made a werewolf come so hard he had trouble breathing.

The things that are happening for Stiles’ ego right now, dear God, he’s never felt this good.

It’s possible he might potentially be an addict. Because this is a feeling he could get addicted to _easily_. Post-orgasm high _and_ beating Derek Hale at something? Fuck yeah. Not that he beat Derek at anything. Well, beat him _off_ …but sex isn’t a competition. 

If it was, he’s _totally_ be winning right now. 

“Okay, you can get off of me now,” Derek says, _totally_ killing the moment. “Do you have a towel or something?” Stiles slings himself back into his seat and pops open the glove compartment. Tosses the Wet Wipes at Derek’s face. As Derek shoots him a dirty look and starts to clean himself off, Stiles squints into the distance at the bank. He can’t see shit, but whatever. The binoculars are on the dash, and when he lifts up to grab them, he drops Derek’s shirt on his thighs. 

Nope, there’s nothing out there. Sighing, he grabs a Wet Wipe from the pack, wipes down his junk, and makes himself look normal. He looks at the used wipe in his hand, cranks down the window, and tosses it outside. 

They’re biodegradable, right? 

He certainly hopes so because Derek tosses two out. 

“Legolas, what do you elf eyes see?” Stiles asks, slouching into a comfortable position. Derek pauses, shirt just over his head. 

“Nothing. And don’t call me Legolas. Of _all_ the characters to choose from…”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I’ll call you Aragorn if you roll down the window. I think it would be best for everyone if they don’t come up on us with our windows steamed.” Derek rolls down the window with an annoyed noise, but he doesn’t protest being called Aragorn. 

Derek uses his special eyes and Stiles uses his binoculars and all in all, they do a very good job of pretending they didn’t just have really great, mutual orgasms. It’s totally cool. And hey, Derek can’t ever get too bad to him because Stiles has shit on him forever and ever. So that’s…something. 

(He’s going to jerk off later to the specific image of Derek’s face when he says _good boy_ and it’s going to be _fantastic_.)

“Okay, wait, so, if you’re Aragorn, that doesn’t make me _Arwen_ , does it? Because _fuck_ no.” 

Derek gives him a look. “I _like_ Arwen.” He looks back towards the bank. “That’s why you’re Eowyn.”

There’s two ways to take that:

1) Eowyn is cool as shit and Stiles has looked up to her as the baddest bitch at the ball since he was _tiny_ so that’s a compliment and Stiles is happy inside.

2) There’s no way in hell _Derek_ would ever compliment him so what he’s _really_ implying is that Stiles has a crush on him that won’t go away until he defeats a Nazgul and meets Faramir, that precious soul. 

“Wow, asshole,” Stiles says, trying not to grit his teeth, “because, yeah, looks like you caught me, I have a _total_ crush on you. I get these little hearts in my eyes and everything. _Guilty as charged_.” 

“What, you want to be Arwen? Or are you forgetting the part where she gave up her immortality for him? _Pretty_ sure the only person you’d be less likely to do that for than me is _Peter_.” 

Yeah, okay, fair point. 

“Fuck it, I wanna be Pippin,” Stiles says, squinting through the binoculars at the absolute lack of activity outside the bank. 

“Sam. To Scott’s Frodo. He even has a little red-haired girlfriend,” Derek says off-hand, a while too late.

Stiles grimaces. “Nah. Sam and Frodo were totally boning. Too weird.” 

Derek makes an exasperated noise and doesn’t suggest any other characters. That’s cool. It’s not like they’re bros or anything. It distracts from the whole _I barely tolerate the fact that you’re alive_ thing they have going on. Well, _I barely tolerate the fact that you’re alive but I like the things you do when my dick is in your hands_ thing. 

Yeah, it’s a damn good thing they have going on.

 

So, Stiles is totally cool with it being a two time thing. 

Alright, he’s very slightly less than cool with it because he’s, like, super into post-Derek jerking off. It’s _way_ more vivid and just generally awesome. And in theory, it could get better. Also, Derek is hot like his balls after a summer lacrosse game. Stiles is very much into the idea of doing something that involves their bodies coming into contact with each other.

But it’s not like he’d be _sad_ if Derek never wants to fool around again. Just horny. And maybe a little disappointed. But not _sad_. He’s way too cool for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consent issues:  
> non-verbal consent  
> character puts another character's hand on his thigh in a sex way without any discussion or agreement for sex first, though no one's opposed  
> underage


	3. It's a new art form, showing people how little we care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyric's from Lorde's "Tennis Court".
> 
> WARNINGS AT THE END

The third time is…well, it’s annoying. 

They’re all at Derek’s, trying to figure out what the hell the Alphas’ back-up plan is, since Operation: Make Derek Murder-Happy failed _hard_. Also, the virgin thing, which was on the back-burner for a little while, is now super important because oh, yeah, they found _another_ dead body. The guilt is driving Stiles crazy.

And he can’t _do_ anything. He’s good at research, not bad at strategy, even though they never do what he suggests, but he’s pretty much useless right now because they’re just _arguing_. And it’s _everyone_ arguing — Scott, Derek, Peter, Allison, Isaac, Boyd, Cora, Lydia — so there’s no escape. Stiles tries to tell them to stop, to do something productive, but it’s all turning into an ego thing, and he just gives up. There’s no point.

So Stiles goes to the bathroom and splashes some water on his face and doesn’t think about how the reason the sink wiggles when he presses on it is because of when he jerked Derek off. _Not_ helping. He’s just angry now because he hasn’t been able to sleep, even when he hasn’t been doing school work or trying to dredge something useful out of Google about the Alphas, because of the stress. And he hasn’t gotten off in thirty-nine hours, which is pretty much a record since he was, like, twelve. It would be _great_ for stress relief right about now, but there’s eight people in the other room and _fuck_ no. 

Stiles goes back out and sits on Derek’s very sad couch and tries to nap through the argument. 

“Well _maybe_ we should just give them _you!_ ” Lydia yells. 

“I’m not the one they want, _dear_ ,” Peter says, and Stiles’ skin crawls. Then there’s four people yelling over each other and when Stiles looks, Cora and Isaac are holding Lydia back. 

“Peter, leave. You’re done. Get out,” Derek orders. Everyone goes quiet for a moment, and then Peter does as he says. When he sees Stiles, he throws him a wink that makes Stiles want to bare his teeth, and he’s not even a werewolf. 

Everyone at the table just stands there, and then Scott says, “So, I hate to say it, but I think at some point, we’re going to need him to figure this out. He has information we need.”

“Yeah, and _who_ ’s been telling us that?” Lydia asks. “Oh yeah, _Peter_. Why do we believe it? I think he’s give us everything he has and he’s just distracting us so we don’t realize it.”

 _That_ gets everyone arguing again, and Stiles just can’t take it. “Guys! _Guys!_ ” Everyone turns, realizing that he’s not among them. “Look, Peter’s too smart to _ever_ tell us everything. He knows that the second he does, he’s useless, he’s back in the ground. When we’ve figured this all out, Lydia, I will personally hold him back with a wolfsbane rope so you can beat the shit out of him, but _we still need him_.”

“So what do we _do_ , then? Because he’s withholding information.” Lydia crosses her arms. 

“Use his sympathy.” Stiles shrugs. “I think we should pause and let Cora talk to him. She’s the only one he doesn’t automatically assume wants him dead.”

Cora sighs, looks at Stiles. “He’s not Peter anymore. I don’t like being alone with him.” She looks at Derek. “But I’ll do it.”

“Okay, well, obviously, we can’t do that now. So what do we do _now_?” Allison asks. 

“Whatever we can,” Scott answers. “See if we can figure out what’s killing these people on our own. Alright?” 

And that means Stiles. That means Stiles and Lydia especially. That means they’re not leaving here until _late_. Great. Fan-fucking-tastic. 

Like every time, Stiles wonders if this is the moment where he’s finally going to say _I’m sorry, I can’t right now, I’m burned out_. But like every time, he stuffs it down, squares his shoulders, and does what needs to be done. 

They work for four hours. Derek’s coffee maker is probably the only thing keeping him going. It’s really just Stiles and Lydia, because they read the fastest and after half an hour, almost everyone’s cleared out after being told that no, there’s nothing they can do. The two of them each take a page in the spread so they can power through the fucking useless book that Stiles has read at least once already anyway and they _read_. 

Derek and Cora sit on the couch very quietly and Stiles is pretty sure he’s never felt more useless because they don’t _find_ anything. 

When he finally takes a break, pacing while his coffee cools, blinking to clear his eyes, Cora calls his name, pulls him out of his head. 

“Come here, Stiles,” she says, and Stiles goes, and when she tells him, he sits in front of her, between her spread knees. She massages her knuckles into his neck, _right_ where he’s getting a crick, and it all just melts away. He sits there like someone’s lapdog, sipping at his coffee. When he finishes, she does too, and when he stands, he feels like a new person. 

“She’s good at that, isn’t she?” Lydia murmurs. She’s stretching, getting her blood flowing, and that’s when Stiles realizes that’s he’s not helpless over her anymore. She’s stretching her arms over her head, enough to show her belly, and he doesn’t feel like he’s going to fall over anytime soon.

“Huh,” he says, mostly to himself. She looks at him, ruffles his hair. 

“Back to work, kiddo,” she says, and that’s another thing. Somewhere along the line, they got to be _fond_ with each other. It’s nice. 

Nine feet behind him and four feet to the left, Derek sits, and Stiles doesn’t acknowledge that he’s there. There’s no reason to: if they’re not arguing or saving each other’s lives or jerking each other off, they don’t have anything to do with each other. 

(That’s not true. The entire time Cora was touching him, he could feel Derek’s presence two feet away. Just _feel_ him. A tactile awareness that didn’t make sense considering the space. It’s a thing that happens sometimes and he’s not thinking about it, or what it means, or the other times he’s felt like that before.)

After a couple hours, Lydia throws down the towel, makes her arms into a pillow, and rests her head. She’s asleep by the time Stiles has finished reading the page they’re on. 

He can keep going, it’s okay. If he keeps going, it’ll bring him one step closer to finding who killed Heather. 

“Could someone take her home?” Stiles asks. “She’ll be pissed if we let her sleep like this.”

Cora says, “Why don’t you take her home? You can keep going in the morning.”

“No, I’m good, I’ve got at least two hours in me. Take her. You can take my Jeep if you want.” He digs his keys out of his pocket and holds them out. It’s a few lines before she takes them, steps so quiet he doesn’t even hear. 

“ _Sleep_ , alright? You’re stressing us out.”

He’s not sure who the _us_ is. (That’s a lie: he _is_.) But if he focuses, he might be able to finish their read-through. More coffee, and then he can do this. 

There’s some in the pot. It’s burned, but that’s whatever. He’ll drink it anyway. 

He’s grabbing the sugar when a hand settles on his shoulder. Stiles _jumps_.

“Jesus Christ, can you _not_? I hate it when you sneak up like that.” 

“You need to sleep. I’ll take you home,” Derek says, and Stiles turns around because _no_.

“Not yet. I’m fine.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Well, _I_ need to sleep. And look at you. You’re running on steam.” Derek’s hand comes up to his face, his thumb tracing the dark circle under Stiles’ left eye. Stiles tries not to lean into it, but his hand is like a pillow and _yeah_ , Stiles is tired, but he doesn’t get that privilege right now. 

He pulls away, turns back around, and stirs sugar into his coffee. It’s too hot, but they’re out of milk, so he just _smells_ it. He’d assumed Derek had stalked away as silently as he’d approached, but Derek’s hand wraps around his hip, and his nose rubs against Stiles’ neck. 

“Come on, man, I need to work.” 

Derek shakes his head, nose brushing against him. “You’re taking a break.” His hand smokes across Stiles’ lower belly, dipping under his waistband when he hits Stiles’ happy trail. His other hand goes to Stiles’ fly, and like that, he gives up pretending he's not going to do this. 

“How far away is Lydia’s?” Stiles asks. 

“Twenty minutes, each way. We’ll be done before Cora’s back.” 

Stiles sighs, then wiggles his hips back against Derek. “Alright, buster. I hope you know you’re taking the reins on this one. I’ll make it up to you later.”

“No problem,” Derek whispers, breath warm, and he pulls back. Stiles tries to lean back into him, but Derek tugs his shirt off first. There’s soft cotton at his back and he rubs against it, humming.

“You, too,” he says. “Please.” 

Derek chuckles once, just once, and the warmth of him disappears. Stiles leans forward, onto the counter, just trying to conserve his energy so he can maybe hold himself up after. Derek shoves his jeans down until they’re around his ankles, and Stiles struggles with his boxers, giving up at mid thigh. 

“I don’t have enough energy for you to fuck me,” Stiles says, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m pretty sure, at least.”

“Wasn’t going to,” Derek says, flattening himself against Stiles’ back. That’s it, and Stiles is okay with that for now. But he can feel Derek in his briefs against his ass, the heft of him brushing against his cheeks. That’s got Stiles pretty much hard, and he’s pretty sure that given how long it’s been since his last orgasm, this is going to be short, but whatever. Derek can fucking deal with it because he’s too tired to give a fuck. 

Derek spits in his hand and wraps him up in it, hot and enveloping like a good dream. It pulls a sigh out of him, and he lets his head drop back against Derek’s shoulder. It’s slow and just what he needs. Derek holds him up, lets him sag against him, and he might be an asshole, but he’s great sometimes.

 _That_ thought wakes Stiles up, and he stands on his own, braces himself against the counter and grinds back against Derek. Sticks his ass out like he’s in porn because this is just like that. It’s real-life porn, just sex, nothing else. Derek’s a _fuck_ , and that’s all. 

“ _Jesus_ ,” Derek breathes, his forehead dropping to Stiles’ back. He uses the hand that’s not on Stiles’ dick to pull his hips back and get a rhythm going. 

“Actually, my name is Stiles,” he says, knowing it’s _such_ a line, but he’s tired and it’s the best he can come up with.

“Actually,” Derek tells him, “it’s _Little Shit_.” Stiles snorts and reaches back to pull Derek’s dick out. When he lines it up between his cheeks, Derek _groans_. “Still not going to fuck you tonight,” he says, and his voice is a little breathy.

“Never said you were.” 

“Good.” He rubs himself against Stiles for a moment before asking, “Can I touch your ass?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Pretty sure you _are_.”

“No,” Derek hisses, “ _fuck_ , I mean your hole. Can I?” Well, _shit_ , that’s apparently something his body thinks is really hot because he’s pretty sure his dick pumps out a squirt of pre-come and he just _shivers_. 

“Yeah. That’s a thing you can _definitely_ do,” he says, a little dizzy because _please_. He needs Derek all over him _yesterday_. 

And he doesn’t even notice the hand at his hip is gone until there’s a wet _pop_ behind him, and then Derek’s spit-slick finger is right _there_ , rubbing against his hole like he’s trying to learn the feel of it by touch. _Fuck_. The noise he’s making is just _stupid_ , and Derek curls his finger, rubs his knuckle against Stiles, pressing just hard enough that Stiles wants to _whine_ he wants it in him so bad.

“Fuck you, if you don’t—“

“ _Shhh_ ,” Derek hisses, hands dropping away. Then, “Oh, _fuck_ , it’s Cora.” 

Stiles stiffens, frozen. “What do we—?”

“Get dressed. Go to the bathroom. Splash some water on your face or something. Don’t say anything. _Fuck_.” Derek tosses him his shirt and Stiles hurries to yank up his jeans. _Shit shit shit_. If she realizes, they are _so_ dead. So so so dead. 

Except when he gets to the bathroom, he just wonders _why_. Like, yeah, okay, Derek is actually a little bit older than him and he’s a dangerous creature of the night, but to a _werewolf_ in a family as weird as theirs, it probably doesn’t matter. And they haven’t even _fucked_. Hell, they haven’t even _kissed_. Not that Stiles wants to _kiss Derek_. Ew. That’s _weird_ and really stupid and just _no_. That’s not what this is. They’re not kissing and holding hands, they’re just relieving a little tension. Filling needs. They’re screwing around. It’s fine. 

He hears Cora come in, probably because he’s all but got his ear pressed to the door.

“Hey, what’s up?” Derek says, and wow. _Smooth_. Probably the least casual thing he’s done in his life, and that’s _saying something_.

“Lydia left her phone here and _refused_ to go home without it. It should be on the— Yep, there it is.” She pauses and Stiles can _hear_ her looking around. “Ah, bathroom. Sorry. You better make sure he hasn’t fallen asleep in a minute.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, and there’s a soft noise as she pecks him on the cheek. 

After the door shuts behind her, Stiles counts to ninety before leaving. He finds Derek on the couch and looks at him with raised brows. Derek holds up a finger for a moment, then drops it. 

“That was—“

“A close one,” Stiles agrees. “But that means we have forty minutes, right?” He's got a nice little adrenaline buzz and he's  _ready to go_.

Derek narrows his eyes. “If you’re up for it.” Stiles snorts and tosses off his shirt, undoing his jeans as he walks over. He manages _not_ to trip when he’s stepping out of them, but it’s a close one. Derek just sits there, with one cocky eyebrow asking him what the hell he’s doing. Fuck it, Stiles is going to get off and then he’s going to nap and— no, he’s _not_ going to nap, he’s going to keep working, and that’s that. 

When Stiles, buck naked, gets over to Derek, he stops and stands there with a hand on his hip. “Dude, at least take off your _jeans_. I don’t know about you, but I’m _not_ a fan of chafing.” Derek strips _really_ fast actually. It’s probably a werewolf skill. For when he turns into a fucking wolf. Which neither Stiles nor anyone else has ever seen, but it’s definitely a thing that happens. 

“What are you doing over there?” Derek asks when he’s naked and sitting and Jesus, Stiles has never seen him totally naked before. This is a _gift_. 

He doesn’t _jump_ onto him, but it’s maybe a little eager. Whatever. Derek pulls him in tight by his ass and it’s _good_. He’s not all the way hard again because, hey, surprise sisters are boner-killers, but it’s probably going to take him about thirty seconds to get there, tops. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” Derek groans into his collarbone, the stubbeard scraping a little. “It smells like sex in here, you know that? It _reeks_. I don’t know if she just didn’t smell it or what—“

“Maybe it just smells like your usual sexual frustration, Hannibal.” Derek pulls away and gives him a very, very confused look. “He has a really good sense of smell, like— Oh, fuck it, give me your hand, jerkface.” 

Half a smirk spreads across his face and he lets Stiles pull his hand to his mouth. When Stiles gets his mouth on Derek’s palm, the sight of him shutting his eyes makes him smile into it. He sucks at it, licks between his fingers, and he thinks he might be able to taste his pre-come and that’s a little more of a turn-on than he thought. 

“You want me to suck on your fingers, don’t you?” Stiles asks, wiggling his eyebrows. “Gets you hot, thinking about me sucking your cock.” He lets the consonant sound echo out of his mouth, then watches Derek as he trails his lips along his index finger. 

“Yeah, yeah it does,” Derek says, a little sharp. Like Stiles was accusing him of something. 

Stiles smiles, licking just enough to slick Derek’s first two fingers up. “I’ve been told I look good with something in my mouth,” he says as he shifts forwards and guides Derek’s hand behind him. 

“Who told you that?” _That_ ’s pissed off, and Stiles doesn’t miss that little flash of red. So Derek gets possessive in the heat of the moment. Good to know. 

“Someone at The Jungle— _fuck_ ,” he hisses as Derek presses just the tip of one of his fingers in. He arches back into it, pressing his chest against Derek’s, head falling to his shoulder. That finger just _teases_ , circling around a little but never pressing all the way in. 

“Did you fuck him?” Derek asks, voice rough as his other hand goes to hold Stiles open for him. 

Stiles shakes his head, then lets out a long, low sound as Derek presses in _slow_. Fuck, it’s totally different when someone else does it, and he can get in deeper, and he’s _there_ , hot and solid. This is way better than trying to finger himself. This is _great_. 

He finds himself mouthing at the stubble on Derek’s neck, like the way it scrapes. Derek fucks his finger in so _slow_ , like he _knows_ how much Stiles wants it.

“If you don’t finger me like you mean it, I’m going to bake you wolfsbane muffins and watch you eat them,” Stiles says, but it comes out in pants, his breath wet against Derek’s throat. It gets him the gentle prod of a second finger, and when Stiles arches back impossibly further, he slips it in. “ _Yeah_ ,” Stiles sighs, not caring enough to stop himself from licking Derek’s neck.

Derek’s hand pulls him in by the small of his back, making him spread his legs wider as he gets in closer, then somehow makes it to the base of his hairline, just stroking through. “You love this, don’t you?” he asks, and in response, Stiles grinds forward against his dick, then back into his fingers. 

“I can’t mark you, can I? Even if I try?”

“No— I don’t know. I have no idea,” Derek says and for some reason, it sounds like a confession. But Stiles latches onto Derek’s throat, sucks _hard_ , loving the broken noise he makes, the way he fucks his fingers in harder, the way he thrusts against him. He pulls back, laps at Derek’s throat, then nips and sucks and ruts down in an attempt to get some friction. Somehow, he manages to get a hand between them, feels how wet his dick is, how even Derek’s got a drop or two pushing out of his slit. 

If there’s one thing Stiles knows how to do, it’s jerk off. He’s an _expert_ , and even though the way Derek’s fingers are fucking in and out of his hole, making him want to beg for something _more_ , even though he’s driven to do his best to leave his first hickey, he can jerk them off together. It’s not a good rhythm and his hand can’t go all the way around, but it’s enough to get Derek thrusting up into his hand, chanting _fuck fuck fuck_ over and over. Like Stiles has taken away his ability to speak. That’s like a gift. Everything Derek becomes when they’re like this is a gift. 

He gives up on trying to jerk them both off because it’s not working, not with the way they’re both trying to grind against each other. Really, Stiles should push Derek onto his back so he can slide their dicks together right, but that’s too much effort. Too much distraction. 

It’s fine because they’re basically humping the shit out of each other, which is totally immature, but Stiles is at that point where the most he can really do is moan and suck at Derek’s neck, so whatever. Derek’s not much better. He’s making these ridiculous noises, like he’s _dying_ , and when Stiles realizes that he’s right at the edge of coming, he _bites_ , right at the junction of Derek’s neck and shoulder. 

The sound he makes is something like a _wheeze_. It makes Stiles grin against his skin, and he doesn’t stop rutting against him, even though it’s wetter and he’s going to have jizz all over him when they’re done. Fuck, if that doesn’t get him going a little. 

Derek wraps one of his big hands around Stiles’ dick, and that’s pretty much it for him. It’s like he’s _pulling_ the orgasm from him. Stiles sucks at his throat through it so he doesn’t make any noises or say anything stupid. 

For a moment there, they just breathe, sticking together with sweat and come, and it should be gross, but Stiles has come to terms with how fucked up he is. 

It’s kind of nice, honestly, and he’s not sure if it’s because for that moment, he can pretend that the reason Derek’s arms have settled around him is because he is somehow loved. Not just because there’s really not anywhere else for Derek to put his arms.

And Stiles is _tired_. He’s warm and mildly comfortable and he _could_ sleep like this. As the endorphins fade, the exhaustion creeps in and yeah, he’s going to sleep _just_ like this, with his face tucked against Derek’s neck. He nuzzles in a little, getting a little more comfortable, and Derek snorts.

“Not your pillow. Come on, get up. Let’s get you cleaned up, then you can go to sleep.” _That_ sticks in Stiles’ mind and he pulls back, _very_ suspicious. 

“You just wanted me to sleep, didn’t you? You knew I’d wear myself out.”

Derek shrugs. “You weren’t doing anyone any favors by working like you were. Come on. You can have the couch.” Maybe it’s childish, but Stiles crosses his arms and doesn’t budge. Yeah, Stiles wants to sleep, but he’s _mad_ because if he’d just drunk his coffee, he’d be _fine_ right now. 

“There’s probably jizz on it. Sorry if I’m not _excited_ about _that_ prospect. And you’re _evil_ , you know that? You’re actually a horrible person.” The look Derek gives him is tired and _done_.

“Yeah, yeah, haven’t heard that one before. Now get up.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll _make_ you.”

“I’d like to see you tr—“ Stiles cuts off into an undignified yelp because Derek is _picking him up_. Holy shit, he’s going to _die_. Panicked, he wraps his legs around Derek’s waist, grabs his shoulders, holding on for dear life, essentially. “You’re terrible,” Stiles tells him as Derek carries him to the bathroom like a _child_. Okay, he’s not a _child._ He’s not. And this is all really demeaning. 

And then there’s also the fact that Derek can pick him up and walk around with him. Yeah, that’s going into the spank bank for sure. But also: _terrible person_.

“I’m going to murder you,” Stiles says when they get to the bathroom. Derek manages to pull him off, makes him stand while he digs around in the cabinet, finally pulling out a washcloth. Watching him stand up to run the sink, Stiles remembers that Derek’s not _really_ intimidating. They’re basically the same height, after all. It’s just muscle mass. Hot, chiseled, delicious muscle mass. 

Okay, he’s objectifying Derek a little right now, but he’s also swaying on his feet because he’s _tired_ , so whatever. 

Tired or not, his dick still gives a half-interested twitch when Derek starts cleaning him up with the warm washcloth. Not his fault. Derek _totally_ smirks though, and Stiles sticks his tongue out because he can’t come up with anything witty right now. 

“Go get dressed,” Derek tells him when he starts cleaning himself up. And _wow_ , yeah, Derek’s a mess. Gravity may have spared Stiles a little bit, but Derek’s _filthy_. 

That shouldn’t be a turn on, but it is, okay, and his mental filter isn’t engaged enough to stop him from thinking about it. 

And then he sees something that makes him smile. “I guess I _can_ give you a hickey,” Stiles says, like he’s won something. Yeah, he totally won this round. Because it’s _there_ , fading, but there, dark and, as he stares, that’s the impression of teeth. Derek looks in the mirror, makes sure it’s disappearing, and snorts like it’s silly that Stiles is pleased about it. Fine. Asshole. It’s not like it’s kind of cool that he can — at least _temporarily_ — mark a werewolf. 

Dressing takes about a hundred and ten percent of his energy, and alright, he kind of collapses on the couch after. It’s remarkably free of bodily fluids, thank you very much. Not that Derek cares, but whatever. He can suck a dick.

Stiles hums at that, smiling into the cushion. _Yeah_ Derek can suck a dick. He can suck Stiles’ dick whenever he wants. Wouldn’t that be nice? Mmmhmm, Derek’s mouth, his pretty eyes looking up at Stiles, cheeks gone hollow…

“ _Don’t hump my couch!_ ” Derek calls from the bathroom, but Stiles is already asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles is _smart_ , alright?

He’s got intelligence and he knows how to move through the world. His life experience yields way more in the _gratuitous violence_ category than the one for _teenage sex shenanigans_ , but it looks like the universe is trying to make it up to him. Most people don’t get to _touch_ people as hot as Derek, and Stiles gets him for sex training wheels. That’s _awesome_. He’s living the dream right now. 

Well, not so much because of the supernatural bullshit and near-death stuff, but whatever. 

The thing is, he can now officially say that he’s screwing around with Derek.

One’s an incident, two’s a coincidence, and three is a pattern of touching each other’s junk when no one’s around. And also not talking about it. To anyone. At all.

It’s not like Stiles is _embarrassed_ that he and Derek are getting it on. It’s just that there isn’t anyone who would _get_ it. Because Scott has watched him pine over someone for _years_ , and there’s no way he’d believe that Stiles is anything but a die-hard monogamist. Technically, there isn’t anyone else, but the fact of the whole thing is that _there are no feelings_. Which Scott would never understand. And then he’d be all like _Why do you even like Derek? He’s not the worst person in the entire world but he’s_ Derek _._

Because _he_ looks at Derek and sees all of his past and future mistakes and the way he’s _barely_ holding it all together, whereas Stiles looks at Derek and sees his o-face. And his abs. And his ass. And his penis. 

Alright, all things considered, if Peter had Derek’s body, Stiles would not be trying to tap that. Peter is like if Derek were totally and completely a terrible person, not, like, _occasionally_ a terrible person. Well, _often_ a terrible person. Derek has a sense of humor, which, yeah, Peter does, too, but Derek’s is less obvious. Probably the only thing about Derek that could ever be called _subtle_. He’s not _trying_. He makes little jokes for himself, not for anyone else. 

Okay, sometimes they’re pretty bad. But even Stiles isn’t all zingers. And bad jokes can be funny, too. 

What he means is that Derek is not completely terrible, but it’s best for everyone if Stiles just pretends he is. So they can continue with the naked activities and it doesn’t get weird. Not that it _would_. It’s not Stiles could ever have _feelings_ for Derek. 

The very idea actually makes him laugh.

It’s an ugly noise. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> some non-verbalized consent  
> underage
> 
> fyi next chapter's heavier


	4. The sound of your loneliness like a heartbeat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Fleetwood Mac's "Dreams". I highly recommend the Bastille cover.
> 
> WARNINGS. (not just for consent, pls read if you need)

It’s entirely Derek’s fault what happens. Because Stiles _told_ him, made eye contact and everything. Said, _Hey, you know, if you go to that motel tonight, the Alphas are going to rip you a new one._ Derek had just rolled his eyes, and when he’d done his stupid werewolf run towards the motel, Stiles had yelled, _I’ll find you a cozy body bag, asshole!_

So when Derek doesn’t come back when he was supposed to, Stiles is _surprised_. He’s pissed. Really fucking pissed. And what’s _he_ supposed to do? He’s not even there for _backup_. He’s just the getaway. Sure, he has a gun for protection, with wolfsbane rounds, but he’s standing here, alone, and Derek’s probably dead, which means that everyone else, who’re supposed to be using Derek’s diversion to rescue Isaac, aren’t going to be able to help. 

Stiles looks at the gun on his dashboard, looks at the motel, and decides that yes, he’s really that much of an idiot.

Of course, what Stiles finds is Derek losing a fight against the twin-Alpha. Losing _bad_. Stiles is pretty sure he can see Derek’s ribs which is _ew_. 

So Stiles shoots. The twin-Alpha is big, so he’s an easy target, and Stiles gets three in his back before he throws Derek to the floor and sets his sights on Stiles. Stiles gives him one in the belly and two to the chest without blinking. The recoil hurts his elbow because he’s not even holding the gun right, but he’s afraid, and the bullets find their mark. 

“That’s wolfsbane, bitch,” Stiles says when the twin-Alpha pauses, like he’s about to charge at Stiles. “Better run along to your _keeper_ if you don’t want to die.” Stiles hates Morrell, okay, for a variety of reasons, most importantly that she’s a dirty traitor, but whatever. 

The twin-Alpha backs off, whining like a dog because he’s probably starting to feel those bullets now, huh? Stiles stands tall, holding the gun a little too tight, until he retreats and _runs_ into the night. And then he looks at Derek. 

“Told you so, idiot,” he says, trying to parse out the damage. 

“What, you think I didn’t know this would happen?” Derek bites out through gritted teeth. He gets himself to his feet, batting Stiles’ hand away when he tries to help. 

Stiles shakes his head with a grimace. “Okay, so you’re not stupid, you just have a _death wish_. Good to know. _Asshole_.” Derek glares, but he can’t even stand up straight, so it loses some of its effect. “Come on, let’s get you to Deaton.”

“I’m _fine_ , _Christ_ ,” Derek hisses. “I’ll heal. Just take me home.” He takes a really pitiful, limping step, and Stiles just says _fuck it_ and grabs his arm, pulls it over his shoulders. Derek mutters something under his breath, probably something rude, but he can fucking _deal_ with it because there’s _no_ way he’s making it to the Jeep on his own. 

“Wow, don’t rush to thank me,” Stiles says when they get there, rolling his eyes.

“I hate you,” Derek tells him.

Stiles smiles at that. “Well, at least we can rule out brain damage, then.” He hops around to the other side of the car while Derek gingerly gets in. And alright, Stiles should have put down a towel or something because he’s gonna get blood all over Stiles’ seat. Not the first time. 

He’s a bloody wreck and he looks like he’s in pain, which means he’s in a _lot_ of pain.

It takes all of two minutes for the adrenaline to wear off, and then when he looks at Derek, he feels queasy. He _tries_ not to look, but it’s hard because he’s _right there_. But he can’t really tell anything. 

_How bad is it?_

_Can he do anything?_  

_Can werewolves die from blood loss?_

These are questions Stiles is never going to ask because Derek would never answer. For an alpha, he has a hell of a lone wolf complex. He’s big on private suffering. Martyrdom. Well, _fuck you, Derek_ , because Stiles isn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

“What are you doing?” Derek asks when Stiles gets out his car instead of just dropping Derek off at his place. 

“Denying you any possible morsel of happiness,” Stiles tells him cheerfully. “Now let’s go. You can sulk and pretend to not be in pain upstairs.” 

“I’m healing, you know.”

Stiles shrugs. “That’s present-tense. I’m not leaving until you’re all done.” He gets Derek into the elevator and tries very hard not to look at him. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?” Derek asks as he pushes open his door with too much effort. 

“Yep. But I’m going to call Scott and tell him they’re going to have to get a ride from Chris because _this_ situation—“ he makes an all-encompassing gesture towards Derek’s bloody person “—needs attention. Got it?” Derek gives him a look like _better fucking run or I’ll get_ you _,_ but Stiles is impervious to his looks. Because he knows what it looks like when Derek comes all over himself because Stiles calls him a good boy, and that’s something Derek can never take back.

Stiles makes him sit on the table while he goes to get a washcloth. In the meantime, Derek’s ditched his sad excuse for a shirt, and Stiles is pleased to see that he is, indeed, healing. But he’s not done yet. 

Derek doesn’t move, not even a flinch, while Stiles dabs the blood off. He has to wring out the washcloth once, and his stomach turns at the red in the sink, but he gets Derek cleaned off. By the time he’s done, the deep gouges have turned into the fresh pink of new skin. Absently, he traces over one line with his thumb, feeling how smooth the skin is, before it fades into Derek’s natural tan. 

“I don’t want to have to do this again,” Stiles says as he shoots the washcloth into the kitchen sink. _Nothing but net, baby_. 

“No one asked you to do it the first time,” Derek says. He examines himself, but he doesn’t push Stiles away, lets him in close, between his legs. _Who else do you let get this close to you?_ Stiles wants to ask, but he won’t. 

“That’s not what I meant and you know it. You need to not do this anymore.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “What, do what needs to be done?”

“ _No_ , look at me,” Stiles says, leaning to the side so Derek has to meet his eyes. “I’m talking about this thing you do where your default strategy is sacrificing yourself when you don’t need to. It needs to stop.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Derek looks away, shifting uneasily. He’s so _obvious_. 

Stiles gives him the mother of all doubtful looks and says, “ _Really_. Really? That’s what you’re going with? I don’t have to be a werewolf to be able to tell that’s bullshit.” 

“It has nothing to do with you,” Derek tells him, shooting a sharp glare. “What do you care, anyway?”

“Because I’m the one who always ends up saving you, dumbass. And I’m not going to just _stop_ , so don’t even think about asking. Just _don’t do it anymore_. It’s that easy. It’s literally one of the easiest things you could possibly do. It’s less effort to _not_ try to get yourself killed.”

Derek narrows his eyes, corners of his mouth tight. “And what’s in it for me, exactly? Why should I?”

Well, okay, so this isn’t something he’d thought he’d ever have to do. Derek wants him to _incentivize_ _being alive_? Jesus Christ, he’s fucked up. Well, they’re _all_ fucked up, Stiles especially. No, _Derek_ especially. But maybe he can talk him into it? Except the whole _do it for the pack_ thing is probably not the best motivator if he thinks he’s doing it for the pack in the first place. So really, Stiles has basically nothing. What does Derek even _want_? The only thing he’s ever admitted to wanting is Stiles’ mouth, so maybe…

“I’ll blow you,” Stiles offers, because that’s basically his whole hand. That’s it. He’s got _nothing_. 

Derek looks at him for a while, for a very long, strange moment where Stiles wonders if he’s _completely_ fucked it all up. He meets his eyes though, doesn’t back down or shrink away from what he’s putting on the table. Which is stupid. _Hey, I’ll blow you so you don’t find an excuse to kill yourself_. Jesus, who even thinks of that?

“Okay,” Derek says slowly. “If that’s what you want.” 

The thing is, it kind of _is_. Well, it’s part of the larger set of sex-related goals he has involving Derek. He’s gotten off on it, at least, and it’s not like he doesn’t have a weird thing for Derek’s dick and all the magical qualities it possesses. 

See, this is why it’s a problem that it’s Derek. Because Derek’s just _Derek_ and there’s nothing super special about him other than his whole alpha thing and his rockin’ bod and maybe his eyes. And his weird jokes that he pretends he doesn’t make. 

But the thing is, Stiles is fixating because this is a person who wants to get naked with him, and that’s a serious first. He just wishes he weren’t fixating on _Derek_. 

(Getting naked with him is totally cool, though.)

Thinking about Derek naked is kind of a boner-maker for him, but he’s going to pretend it’s not. Because he’s _cool_. And he’s not sure if when he just offered to blow Derek, he meant _now_. Or if that’s what Derek _thinks_ he meant. Or if that’s even what Derek _wants_. Because he _did_ just get the shit beat out of him by a mighty morphin’ alpha-hulk and he’s only _just_ healed and—

Oh, those are the hungry eyes. 

Yeah, this is totally a thing that’s going to happen. Right now. It’s already happening, actually. It is an in-progress event.

Okay, so, he’s really just standing here, probably making the hungry eyes right back, and doing absolutely nothing towards the whole _I’ll blow you_ proposition. And he’s gonna get on that. Get his mouth on that. 

He slides his hands up Derek’s denim-covered thighs to give them something to do. Also because Derek feels _great_. Just the general feeling of being in contact with his body. It’s _nice_. And his thighs are _museum-worthy_. Stiles just runs his hands up and down them, thinking that if they were the sort of people who kissed each other, he might go for that. But they’re not. They’re really not. That would be _weird_. 

But Derek’s neck is a-okay, so he goes for that. The way Derek reacts — rests his weight on his hands, lets his head fall back so his throat is exposed — it’s like the first time they fooled around, but _better_. He’s _offering_ it to Stiles. He wants it, sure, but he’s giving Stiles the knowledge that he wants it. 

 _Knowledge is power_ , he thinks as he chases the path of Derek’s pulse with his tongue. 

Derek’s body shifts as one of his hands makes it into Stiles’ hair and sort of holds him there, at his throat. And then his fingers start rubbing against his scalp, and whatever magic massage powers Cora has are apparently hereditary because _damn_. Stiles is pretty sure he moans and he’s not too thrilled about it, so he sucks hard at Derek’s neck, bites a little. 

Yeah, Derek likes that a _lot_. He pushes his hips forwards until he’s right at the edge of the table and pulls Stiles in close. Not much of an effort because Stiles is _all over him_. 

And when he rolls his hips, he can feel that Derek’s hard, can feel the way he pushes up into it, and _why is anyone wearing pants?_ Pants are stupid and nobody likes them. People shouldn’t wear them _ever_. Especially not Derek. 

Stiles makes quick work of Derek’s fly, giving Derek a smirk at the way his cock slaps against his stomach. Derek rolls his eyes, but he cants his hips up so Stiles can drag his jeans and underwear off of him and toss them away. When he gets back into his nice little spot between Derek’s thighs, fingers find the hem of his shirt. It’s okay, he’s cool. He’s totally cool. Even though Derek wants his shirt off so he’s gotta be at least _kind of_ attractive. It might be the best news of his life. Awesome. 

Derek’s eyes are dark and stuck on his face, flicking between Stiles’ eyes and mouth. His lips tingle a little from rubbing against Derek’s stubble. He licks them, if only to watch Derek track the movement of his tongue. 

Yeah, Stiles is sexy as shit. 

 _Fuck_ yeah. 

“I’ve been practicing, you know,” Stiles says as he gives Derek’s cock a teasing pull. The edge of his upper lip quirks up, almost like a snarl. “What, you don’t like that? That I wanted to be good for you?” 

Derek doesn’t answer, but he looks away, and that’s when Stiles thinks he gets it. 

“Not on _guys_ , you ass. Not on anyone else.” Yeah, that’s it, apparently. Derek has a mid-sexy-times possessive streak to be reckoned with because he grabs Stiles by the scruff of the neck and pulls him in close. Close enough to lean his forehead against Stiles’, close enough that if one of them pressed forward just a couple inches, they could kiss. For a second, Stiles thinks that’s what’s going to happen. Derek can probably hear his heart pounding. 

“Have you done anything with anyone else?” Derek asks instead, and Stiles wants to kick him because _low blow_. 

Stiles takes a shaky breath before answering honestly, if only because Derek will know. “No one. Just you.” Just for a breath, he thinks Derek’s disgusted or regretting everything they’ve done. Maybe he is. But his thumb rubs at Stiles’ hairline before cupping his face in his hands and just _looking_ at him. It’s weird and too much. Because he’s really _looking_ , not a glance, not just staring at his mouth, just scanning over him. The intensity is terrifying.

Just when Stiles is about to say something to get out of it, Derek drops his eyes. 

“Are you afraid of me?” he asks. 

Stiles snorts. “Not since January,” he says. “Don’t flatter yourself.” One of Derek’s thumbs smooths across his lips, around in a circle, then stopping in the middle of his lower lip. It’s practically instinct to nudge his head down and take Derek’s thumb into his mouth and _suck_. 

“I can’t give you what you what you need,” Derek tells him. His eyes are on Stiles’ mouth.

Stiles pulls it the digit out to talk. “Whatever you think I need, I don’t. All I want is to fool around a little without complications. Feelings are a non-issue.” 

“You’re sure?” Derek asks and fucking _everything_ ’s a challenge with him, isn’t it? 

“If you think you can handle it.” It’s, like, ninety percent sarcasm and—

Derek’s kissing him.

 _Correction_ : Derek’s kissing the _ever-loving fuck_ out of him. 

Stiles just grabs his shoulders and holds on because Derek’s _in his mouth_. And all over his mouth. And his _tongue_ is all up in there, which Stiles has _very_ little first-hand experience with. It’s— well, it’s kind of like everything with Derek: confusing and scary at first and then just _really hot_. 

He doesn’t even realize that Derek’s picked him up until his back hits the couch and wow, he’s horizontal, apparently. That’s…a development. 

But then Derek’s mouth is on his again and all he can really do is try to keep up and not shoot like a rocket. He’s slick and tastes like _mouth_ and really, Stiles is usually a lot more coherent than this, but there’s some sort of weird reality shift going on because _what_. And _how_. And _why_. 

That’s when Stiles realizes that he’d answered a challenge with a challenge and this is Derek trying to one-up him. He’s trying to prove to Stiles that he _can’t_ do this, that he’s too much of a blushing virgin to be able to do this without falling for him. 

Well, _fuck that_. 

Stiles grabs Derek’s stupid gelled hair in one hand and grabs a handful of his ass with the other, arching up. It makes Derek groan into his mouth, and he uses that little hesitation to fuck his tongue into Derek’s mouth. If he thinks he can make Stiles give up like this, he has another thing coming. That’s a fact. 

When Derek breaks the kiss, his mouth is red and wet. Stiles’ face _stings_ , but he’s about to come up with some zinger when Derek undoes his khakis and _yanks_ them down his hips. His dick joins the party like it’s part of the world’s least family-friendly pop-up book, and he’s _not_ going to be embarrassed by that. No sir. Or the noise he makes when Derek rubs his cheek against Stiles’ throat. And he doesn’t stop. He rubs this stinging, teasing path down Stiles’ chest, down his stomach, and Stiles isn’t even _considering_ the possibility when Derek licks up the length of him. 

“Jesus _fuck!_ ” Stiles yells, biting his hand immediately because _that_ ’s embarrassing. He doesn’t look down at Derek because that asshole’s probably smirking that stupid smirk. There’s no need to see that. The mental image is _plenty_ clear and—

Derek mouths at his dick, just sort of acquainting him with his lips, and it’s _too fucking much_. 

It takes him a second to get enough air to get it out, but he says, “You are my least favorite person in the world.” The stupid smirk he gets, Jesus…

“Oh really? Then maybe I should stop, yeah?” Derek brushes his upper lip against the ridge at the head of his dick for emphasis. Cheeky fucker. They’re just going to pretend Stiles’ eyes didn’t flutter shut at that. 

“ _Least_ favorite,” Stiles repeats and Derek’s tongue swipes across him again.

A finger slips across him, his belly, and Stiles looks down to see Derek sucking his finger into his mouth. He pops it out with this _stupid_ look. 

“I didn’t even _know_ guys could get this wet.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Stiles groans. “That’s just what my dick _does_. Deal with it or shut up about it.” 

Derek shrugs. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing.” Before Stiles can figure out what _that_ means, Derek licks at his stomach where there must have been a little puddle of pre-come (that happens sometimes, _okay?_ ), licks all the way to the source. When he sucks the head into his mouth, Stiles just gives up on trying to rein himself in. It’s hot and wet and there’s _suction_ and Stiles is _not_ responsible for the noises he’s making right now. He’s not. 

He’s not going to _last_.

There’s no fucking way, not with this— this _asshole_ totally destroying his schema for all of the good things that could be felt through his dick. His hand somehow ends up pulling Derek’s hair, but that doesn’t seem to be a no-no. 

“I can’t—“ Stiles pants, fucking _determined_ to get a sentence out. “Not gonna— Ah, _fuck,_ would you just—“ 

Derek does _not_ , apparently, possess the ability to read minds because he jerks Stiles right at the base, and that’s it. He’s fucking done. Spine-curving, toes-curling, stupid-noise-making _done_. And Jesus H. Christ, Derek just _takes_ it. He _swallows_. Stiles is pretty sure he has a second, itty bitty baby orgasm seeing that. 

“ _You_ ,” Stiles tells him when he’s caught his breath, “are a _danger to society_.” 

Derek slips off of his mostly-soft dick, smirking, and stalks up his body. It’s not a little terrarousing. Stiles doesn’t have a thing for _predatory_. Nope. Not one bit.

The way Derek licks into his mouth isn’t a kiss. Not really. No, he’s making Stiles _taste_ himself on his tongue, licking at him, and maybe it says something about Stiles that it gets him going. But he’s not really _normal_ , so whatever. It’s not really _surprising_ , at least. 

And then Stiles remembers that, _oh yeah_ , _he_ was supposed to be the one giving the blowjay. 

Yeah, what happened to _that_ plan?

Because he’s kind of really confused how Stiles offering a blowie in exchange for Derek’s continued existence turned into Derek changing the shape of the universe with his _mouth_. 

Stiles sneaks a hand down and Derek’s _definitely_ still hard. Like, _wow_. Okay, that’s nice. And the little sounds he’s making into Stiles’ mouth are really nice. Because Mr. _I-will-redefine-your-preconceived-notions-of-all-possible-dick-related-awesome-with-the-sheer-force-of-my-annoying-asshole-mouth_ is really not as cool as he thinks he is. No sir.

Derek chases him when Stiles tries to break the kiss—because it’s definitely a kiss now, _yeah_ it is—but the second try is the charm. “I don’t think you really understood the whole deal here. I said _I_ ’ll blow _you_ , big guy.”

“Nothing’s stopping you,” Derek tells him. Like he’s _chickening out_ or something. Which, _no_. Stiles is fucking _ready_ to get his mouth all over Derek Jr. 

“You’re in my way,” Stiles tells him, looking pointedly at how Derek’s pretty much draped over his body. Derek gets the hint and backs onto his heels, lets Stiles get him how he wants him. Stiles has about a million blowjob positions spinning through his head from all the porn he’s watched, but he decides to keep it simple — has Derek just sit, spread his legs so he can get between them. 

When Derek gives him an expectant look, Stiles bites the inside of his thigh. He _likes_ that, though, the asshole. 

He stops smirking when Stiles grabs his dick and starts lapping at the head. Little teasing licks, batting his eyelashes. Yeah, maybe it’s a cheap shot to try to make Derek feel like a creepy old man, but it doesn’t work anyway. It just makes Derek swear, eyes flashing red, and flex his hands on his thighs, like he doesn’t trust himself to touch Stiles. 

And because Stiles is feeling petty, he just _licks_. All over. Gets Derek nice and wet. Traces the veins up from his balls, teases his foreskin. Yeah, he likes that. But he’s getting frustrated, Stiles can feel it in how tight his muscles are coiling. 

Just when he seems to be about to do or say something, Stiles curls his lips over his teeth and sees how much he can take. He gets nervous at his throat, but he reminds himself of the poor, unsuspecting bananas who gave their lives for this moment and bears down. Barely, just _barely_ , he manages not to gag when Derek hits the back of his throat. 

For a moment, he stays there, breathing through his nose so he remembers that it’s something he can _do_. While he’s paused Derek’s hand touches his head, a weirdly benevolent gesture, almost holy. It comforts him more than he’d like to admit, so he doesn’t look up. 

He bobs his head, focusing on the task at hand, and when Derek seems to like that, he strokes what he can’t fit. Maybe with some practice, he’ll be able to deep throat but _not today_.

It’s not the most pleasant thing, not for his jaw or his bent shoulders, but every time Derek moves because he can’t help it or makes a noise, it’s _good_. He likes it, that he can make Derek feel like this, like he can’t quite contain himself. That Derek’s always a second away from losing it but he never does. 

He doesn’t _say_ anything, really, but words come out his mouth. Most of it is swearing or _yeah_ or, once, _Stiles_ , but he’d cut that off.

It’s easy to tell when Derek’s getting close because he scratches up the couch. 

Stiles pulls off, jerking him gentle and slow. “You want to come in my mouth or on my face? People do that outside of porn, right?” Derek makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan. 

“Sometimes. _Fuck_ , I don’t care,” he says, biting his lip pretty fucking hard it looks like.

Holding back a smile, Stiles leans back in, licks at him and jerks him the way he likes, a little faster, maybe, and when Derek throws his head back, he shuts his eyes. Derek’s come hits him in hot stripes and it’s kind of _everywhere_ by the time he’s done. 

At least the stuff across his mouth he can lick off, but he can feel it on his _eyelids_. Jeez, the last thing he wants is jizz in his eyes. He tries wiping it, but he’s pretty sure it’s stuck in his eyelashes. _Great_. 

“Hang on, I’ll get you something,” Derek says, and he moves around him, gets up and runs off. And Stiles waits, sitting on his heels, with semen all over his face. 

Derek gets back a second later and a warm, wet washcloth dabs at his face. 

“So, I think that’s an only-in-porn thing. At least until we can work on your aim. But I bet for a second there, it was really hot.” Derek snorts, moving from his eyes to his cheeks. “You know, I bet if I did it to you, it would stick in your almost-beard. _That_ would be fun clean-up.” 

“Have I ever told you that I love your dirty talk?” Stiles does _not_ blush at that, and he’s not going to get weird about it either.

“Uh—“ _fuck, be cool_ “—no. No you have not.”

“That’s because it needs work,” Derek tells him, grinning with a lot of teeth. It’s not _friendly_ , too harsh, but it’s almost fond. Stiles smacks his arm.

“ _Asshole_. For a second there, I almost had a heart attack. I thought you were _complimenting_ me.” Stiles shudders. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.” Derek rolls his eyes, but he’s still got a little bit of a smile. Stiles looks at him, then at his chest because it’s _right there_. 

Not long ago, he had gashes across it. Not long ago, he was bleeding everywhere. And now he’s _fine_. Really, Stiles can’t even _tell_. Can’t remember exactly where the marks were. 

It’s weird to think that Derek doesn’t wear his past on his body. 

Probably good. Because there’s too many mortal wounds he’d be carrying around. He should be dead a hundred times over, and here he is. Here he is and he’s trying to do it anyway, to finish what his body stopped. It’s always _for_ someone, but it’s not, not really. It’s just an easy out. If he goes down protecting them all, they won’t be mad. They’ll band together. 

Or at least that’s what Derek probably thinks.

“You’re wrong,” Stiles says. It’s a total non-sequitur. He’s naked and kneeling at Derek’s feet and thinking about how he’s maybe trying to kill himself, and it just feels wrong. It _is_ wrong. It’s a series of edges that don’t match up. 

“What are you even talking about?” Derek asks, and Stiles gets up. He’s not sure where to go — does he sit next to Derek on the couch? Does he get dressed? What’s the protocol for a half-assed one-man intervention?

What he does is he sits in Derek’s lap because that’s _comfortable_. It’s a space where they’re comfortable with each other.  It’s too long after to really touch him much, but Stiles places a hand on his shoulder, feeling the muscle there for a moment. It’s so weird, how he is. How Derek’s body is the opposite of who he is. His body is confident and infallible and can take pretty much anything, and then there’s _Derek_. Stiles might not be an expert on him, but it doesn’t take an expert to see that Derek’s pretty fucked up. Damaged. 

“You should talk to someone,” Stiles says, really sure on this point, even if he can’t meet Derek’s eyes. “Cora or someone. I… History is full of people who’ve sacrificed their lives for sex. It’s a biological imperative, you know? But I think something’s— What I mean is that you shouldn’t need sex as a motivator to engage your self-preservation instincts. It’s backwards.” In the look Derek gives him, Stiles can feel the second he closes off. 

“We’re done here. It’s time for you to go.” 

Stiles sighs, frustrated, but he climbs off Derek’s lap and finds his clothes, gets dressed.

All the while, Derek just _sits_ there. Naked and unashamed, face stony, like his frown has been etched into it. When Stiles has all his clothes on, he stops and looks at Derek from across the room. 

“I wasn’t trying to piss you off, alright? I just— I know what it’s like to drive too fast at night because you almost _want_ an accident to happen, but you have to find _something_ to put on the brakes for. Family, friends, whatever. There’s no short supply of people who need you, Derek. It’s okay to need them back.”

With that, he gets the hell out of there. 

 

* * *

 

When Stiles corners Danny, he’s met with immediate suspicion, which is totally fair. Stiles may have accidentally been the face of the Break-Up-Danny-and-Ethan movement. And they may have succeeded. And it might have been without explaining werewolves or whatever, so Danny’s suspicious as hell because he knows that Stiles, especially, is hiding something. 

“ _No_ ,” Danny says as soon as Stiles opens his mouth. “Whatever it is, _no_.” He side-steps Stiles easily.

“Dude, come on! I’ll do anything! I need your help,” Stiles tells him.

Danny stops. “ _Anything_?”

Well, _fuck_. 

“Yeah,” Stiles tells him with a sigh. “Consider me your bitch.”

Danny looks over his shoulder at him. “Alright. Meet me at Starbucks after school. We’re getting coffee and we’re going to negotiate. I’m not promising anything until I know you can deliver.”

 

* * *

 

 

“So here’s the thing,” Danny says when they sit at a table in the corner. “ _You_ messed a lot of things up for me. Ethan and I were good. I didn’t need to know that he wasn’t _real_.” 

He’s talking about the fact that neither Ethan nor Aiden legally exist, something Stiles slipped to him, and whatever happened after that is the topic of some hushed speculation between him and Scott, but they don’t know for sure. What they _know_ is that Ethan and Aiden dropped out of school to be “home-schooled” and Deucalion was apparently mega-pissed about it all. 

“We could’ve been happy anyways. That’s your fault. Mostly. Do you— do you know why they weren’t…in the system?”

Stiles shrugs in the least committal wait possible because he has _no_ idea what he told Danny.

“You do, don’t you? Because of Scott.” Yeah, Stiles isn’t going to touch that. “Well, so after he told me about the whole _fur_ thing, there was no way we could be _normal_.”

For a moment, Stiles just stares at him, then asks, “Wait, he _told_ you?”

“What, about the fact that half of everyone I know is a werewolf? Yeah, Stiles, he _fucking did_. Which is better than any of you did.” Danny glares at the cup of coffee in his hands. “And the thing is, I _knew_. I figured it out back in February. I wasn’t sure what the hell was going on with _Jackson_ for a while, but I figured that out too. What, you think you can talk about the full moon all through chemistry and no one’s going to notice? _Seriously_?”

Awkward and a little guilty, Stiles laughs. 

“So here are my terms: I want in. I want to know everything that’s happening. And I need you for something. Don’t read anything into it, alright?” Stiles narrows his eyes. “Look, nothing actually sexual, but I need to use your dick to make someone jealous.”

Stiles chokes, coughs for a minute, like he’s dying, then says, “Sorry, _what_ was that?”

“You’re packing, Stiles. Everyone knows that. After Finstock’s—“

“ _No_ , dude,” Stiles says, holding up his hands. “That condom wasn’t even _mine_ , alright? It was just the only one I could find. I mean, _I_ don’t have any insecurities about my size, but I don’t think I’m about to make anyone jealous.”

Danny sighs. “Crap. Fine. Well, the other stuff, then. I expect to be clued in.” 

“You can be our Bobby,” Stiles says, and he gets an annoyed look.

“I don’t know what that means and I don’t care.” Danny takes a sip of his coffee. “What did you want from me anyway?”

“I…” Stiles looks at his hands. “It involves a purchasing decision. I need to buy something, but I’m not really sure _exactly_ what, and I think you can help.”

“I am _not_ helping you pick out a dildo.” 

Stiles’ throat maybe closes up a little and he shakes his head. “ _No way_ , dude, that’s not even— Do you _really_ think I’d ask for your help with that?” Danny raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, okay, well, I’m _not_. It’s…well, it’s underwear. The only kind I’ve worn since middle school are boxers, and they’re not exactly _sexy_ , you know? I just wanted to find something a little more… _mature_ , and I don’t know how to start.”

“You’re trying to get laid,” Danny says with something like a smirk.

“Well, not exactly. I have someone, I just want to impress him, I guess. He’s a little older and the superhero boxers are a little embarrassing, you know?”

“Wait, _you_ have a boyfriend?” Danny shakes his head, rolling his eyes. “Come on, why am _I_ the single one?”

“It happens. Will you help me, though?”

Danny looks tired, but he nods. “Yeah, fine. I’ll help you seduce your boyfriend.”

“Well, he’s not _really_ my boyfriend,” Stiles says, wincing. “It’s a lot more casual than that. I just use him for sex. And his body is a lot better than mine, so I’m trying to compensate a little.”

“How hot is he?” Danny asks. He’s leaning forward, hands cupped around his mug, like Stiles has some great gossip. And maybe he _does_. It _is_ kind of juicy, even though Danny doesn’t really know that because he doesn’t know who Derek is. 

“Well, let’s just say I’m disappointed when I watch porn now.”

Danny makes a little jealous noise. “ _Not_ fair. I mean, it took you long enough, so maybe it is. Is he good-looking? His face, I mean.”

“ _Oh_ yeah,” Stiles says, nodding hard. “He’s got this sort of not-quite-a-beard thing and his jaw could probably cut marble, like, _whoa_ , and—“

“Wait, are you fucking your cousin?”

“Uh—“ shit, cousin? Who’s his— _Oh_. “No, he wasn’t my cousin. But that’s the guy.”

Danny raises his eyebrows. “So you’re fucking Derek Hale?”

“ _Well_ ,” Stiles says with a wince because _of course_ Danny knows who _Miguel_ was. “That’s— Technically, there hasn’t been any—“ He makes a crude penetrative gesture. It gets his point across, that’s for sure, going by Danny’s understanding nod.

“That’s chill. Some guys don’t.” 

“No, I _do_. I think. I’m pretty damn sure. I think _he_ does? He likes…well, I’m _pretty sure_ he wants to.” Stiles frowns, thinking about it. “ _Does_ he?”

“Have you _talked_ about it?” Danny asks.

Stiles shrugs. “We don’t. Talk about it, I mean. It just happens sometimes. We didn’t even _kiss_ until, like, a couple days ago, so it’s not really that kind of thing. A relationship, I mean. We’re just _there_. And then things happen.”

“Dude, it’s a relationship. You and me? We have a relationship. Every two people who’ve met have a relationship. You may not be _dating_ , but you have _some kind_ of relationship. And a relationship involving sex needs rules. Communication. Fuckbuddies don’t work unless you talk about it. If you’re not on the same page, sooner or later, it’s going to get messed up. _Trust me_.” 

“We _communicate_. Kind of. Sometimes. Usually in the middle of things. We’ve agreed that it’s a purely physical relationship. And he knows that he’s the only one I’ve done anything with. He asks before doing stuff, if I’m not the one who brings it up.” Stiles shrugs. “It works for us.”

“Is he a, you know. _Werewolf_?” Danny asks quietly. 

“Well, technically, he’s _the_ werewolf,” Stiles says. “The alpha. Well, there’s him, and then there’s a bunch of them.”

Danny nods. “Ethan and Aiden and their _pack_.” He says the word like it feels weird in his mouth.

“Yep. But for everyone else, he’s the big guy.”

“They’re good, aren’t they?” Danny asks. “I mean, Ethan had some _stuff_ that he was into, but so does everyone, I guess. But he was very _attentive_.”

“I mean, I _think_ he gives good head, but I’m not exactly drawing on a wealth of experience, so…”

“Fuck you, I don’t wanna hear that. I’ve seen him shirtless — I’m already jealous.”

Stiles nods, thinking about Derek’s glorious body. “ _Yeah_ ….”

Danny throws a sugar packet at him. “That’s gross. We’re in public. I hate you.”

Stiles grins, but a weird thought comes to him: _why_ is Derek fooling around with him? It’s pretty obvious why Stiles is, but Derek? Not so much. It’s not like Stiles is mega-hot. He’s not experienced either. What does he really have to offer?

“What? You just got really mopey all of a sudden.”

“I don’t know why Derek’s hooking up with me. I have absolutely no idea why.”

“ _Dude_.” Danny gives him a really serious look. “I’m going to say this just the once because you’re really not my type, but you’re, well, _you have a look_. A very specific kind of look. There’s a lot of guys who’ll go for you, I _promise_.”

Stiles frowns. “What kind of _look_?”

“Like…well, _innocent_. Pure, I guess.” Danny seems to be unsatisfied with that, though, because after a second, he says, “But in a really specific way. I’m not saying _I_ think this, because I know you too well, but you look kind of like you could be the chaste boy-next-door on the outside but a real freak in the sheets underneath. It’s a thing some guys like. A Lolita thing, I guess.” 

“So you’re saying that I’m some kind of _fetish_?”

“ _Well_ , that’s a strong way to put it. _Type_ , maybe?”

Stiles blinks, trying to reconcile that with his view of himself. “Should I be _concerned_ , then? That Derek wants to fuck me? Or at least I _think_ he does. I’m pretty sure. Should I be worried?”

Danny shrugs. “Dude, I don’t _know_ Derek. I have no clue. You asked me why someone would be attracted to you, and I told you. That’s all I got.”

“Okay. Well. Thanks. I guess.” Stiles frowns into his coffee. He’s going to have to figure out if that’s what Derek’s into. If he likes that Stiles is _young_ and inexperienced and _underage_. Shit. What if he’s, like, an ephebophile? Is it a good idea to be sleeping with an ephebophile? 

This is _way_ too confusing. 

He felt a lot better about everything before talking to Danny. Fuck life. 

“Oh, here,” Danny says. “Let me text you a couple links for some sites with good underwear because you look sad now. Also, um, just a tip? Invest in some good lube. That’s all the sex advice you’re ever going to get from me. We _are not_ that kind of bros.”

And with that, Danny departs in whiff of good cologne. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consent stuff:  
> character uses sexual acts as an incentive, enjoys it anyway  
> underage
> 
> Other stuff:  
> discussion of Derek's self-sacrificial tendencies as possibly suicidal  
> canon-typical violence   
> gore


	5. Hate is spitting out each others' mouths, but we're still sleeping like we're lovers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Daughter's "Still".
> 
> Yeah, uh, don't forget the WARNINGS AT THE END. If you want. I won't tell you what to do.

Stiles is wearing a pair of underwear that he just got shipped in yesterday when the forest fiasco happens. 

It’s not wishful thinking or anything. He just wants to get comfortable in underwear that don’t have cartoon characters all over them. They fit different. Less bunchy under his jeans, and they feel good. (He did _not_ base his underwear choices on the fact that Derek also wears briefs, though his have a little more leg than Stiles’.)

Stiles isn’t even supposed to _be there_ for the forest fiasco. 

He’s under very strict orders from three different people to be at home, safe, in his room. That’s where he starts the night, when everyone else goes to do their big scary werewolf thing. It’s also where Lydia finds him.

“I hate hanging behind,” she says, standing in his doorway. “It’s not safe. For us or them.”

“I hear you, but what are we supposed to do?”

She pulls a crossbow from her oversized purse. “Go help them, of course.” Stiles grins. Yeah, he liked her for a reason, that’s for sure. 

“Give me a second.”

Chris Argent is good for a lot of things, including guns he shouldn’t have and ammo and holsters for the guns he shouldn’t have. 

Stiles’ dad is downstairs, so he grabs Scott’s oversized red hoodie. It hides the shoulder holster pretty well and the pocket is big enough that if he holds himself right, he can hide a second gun and a thigh holster. His khakis aren’t the _best_ for running, but he still feels a little weird about changing in front of Lydia, and his track pants are dirty anyway. He _does_ go for the Nikes instead of the Converse, though. 

“You ready?” he asks, and Lydia nods. He realizes then that she’s wearing leggings and Pumas. Shit, she must mean serious business if she’s ditched the heels. 

“Let’s go kick some ass,” she says with a glossy pink smirk. 

She’s got GPS on her phone, thanks to Danny, and they’re tracking Scott’s phone. He’s too deep in the Preserve for them to take the Jeep right to him, so they park in one of the little lots at the edge. Stiles straps the holster around his thigh, makes sure both guns are loaded, and ditches the sweatshirt. When he gives Lydia a nod, they head out into the woods. 

GPS makes it look like they’re half an hour away, but it takes them at least twice that because of the lake. 

It’s a careful maneuver, edging up to where Scott supposedly is. If any of their see them too soon, it could ruin everything. _Supposedly_ , this is neutral ground for a confrontation between the Alphas and everyone else. Well, everyone else minus Stiles and Lydia, because they’re _vulnerable_. _Weak_.

Yeah, fuck that. 

Luckily, they see Allison and Chris, which means that they can totally sneak up. Unfortunately, it also means they’re probably going to be heard or scented by the others pretty soon. Oh freaking well. 

Allison turns first, her hearing a little sharper than her father’s. Her eyes go wide and she makes a sharp gesture at them to leave. That gets Chris’ attention and he’s _pissed_. They’re silent, though, as Stiles and Lydia approach, and hold their fingers to their lips. 

They’re on something of an embankment, looking over everything. The werewolves are all below, in a clearing, and as Stiles scans them, he meets Derek’s eyes.

 _Fuck_. 

Yeah, he’s going to get chewed out when they’re done here. Derek had, in no uncertain terms, ordered that all untrained humans stay behind. Meaning Stiles. And Lydia. Because _apparently_ he doesn’t get that if you tell Stiles to do something, he’s absolutely going to do the opposite. 

The thing is, the other Alphas sense Stiles and Lydia, too. 

Stiles can’t hear what anyone’s saying, but going by their body language, things are getting tense. _Shit_. They start moving, start getting aggressive, and then _Scott_ looks up, and Stiles _knows_ that he’s upset. He looks at Lydia and she sees it too, that maybe they’ve caused some trouble. 

“ _Look_ ,” Stiles yells, “ _we come in peace! We’re pretty much the opposite of threats!_ ”

While all the werewolves look at him, Allison asks out of the side of her mouth, “Stiles, you guys don’t have ammo in those weapons, do you?” It’s _super_ quiet, but they probably hear it below. And the thing is, if he lies to her, they’ll know. So he shakes his head instead of answering out loud. But apparently they pick up on that lie, or maybe they can just see the weapons, because suddenly things are looking a _lot_ more wolfy. 

“Well, fuck,” he says as it turns into a full-on brawl. Chris reaches around Allison and grabs Stiles’ arm.

“Do you have a second gun on you? Give it to me.” Stiles pulls the gun from his shoulder holster and hands it to him. “Go for the big one. It’s too far for you to risk any of the others.” Allison grabs the crossbow from Lydia and crouches down to take aim. Cursing, Stiles pulls the other gun and tries to aim at the twin-Alpha. 

The first time he shoots, he misses by at least ten feet. The second shot is _worse_ , and when he looks to make the third, he realizes that there’s no way they can win. They can’t walk away from this intact. The Alphas are too strong. They’ll overwhelm the pack in a matter of minutes. 

“Wait,” Stiles says, grabbing Allison’s shoulder. “Stop firing. It’s not going to help. Let me see if I can do something.” He looks at Allison first, then Chris, and they seem to agree, lowering their weapons.

There’s no way to _walk_ down the embankment, it’s too steep, so Stiles runs. Charges into the fray, skidding to a stop in the fallen leaves. He’s maybe a couple yards from where Derek and Deucalion are battling it out. With a swift look around, Stiles grabs for the chain around his neck, pulls out his whistle, and _blows_.

All of the werewolves stop, ducking their heads and covering their ears. In a second, all eyes are on him. Stiles drops the whistle and looks at Deucalion, specifically. 

“Stop this. It’s my fault. Do whatever you want with me, but don’t kill them just because I crashed your party.” 

Deucalion stands tall, face turned towards him. “Ah. Stiles. I’d know you anywhere.”

“I’ve been told I have a certain charisma.” Everyone’s dead still, but he can feel Scott, behind him, trying to lean towards him.

Deucalion shakes his head. “No, it’s the scent of your _fear_. It has a very particular bouquet. And that _heartbeat_. So fast, I don’t think I could dance to it.” The corner of his mouth lifts, teeth showing. Sharp, not full fangs. 

“You could kill me in about a second flat.” At that, Derek tenses like he’s about to move, and Stiles raises his hand to him. “I’d be stupid if I wasn’t afraid.”

“And yet…here you stand. You move towards the things that frighten you, have you noticed that?” Stiles doesn’t know what he could possibly say to that, so he keeps his mouth shut. “And you’re young, strong.”

“Sweet of you to notice, but you’re not my type,” Stiles retorts.

Deucalion nods with a weird sort of eagerness. “And _that_ , that spark. You’re not the type to roll over and take it. You fight back. You don’t like following orders.”

“Look, I’ve heard this pitch before, but I don’t want to be a _werewolf_ , alright?”

“What about an alpha?” 

 _Shit_. 

The way the tension level around them shoots up at that gives him goosebumps, a sharp shiver. 

Jesus, no one’s breathing. 

“Only one way to do that,” Stiles says with only a slight tremor to his voice, “and I don’t think your _pack_ will take to kindly to me killing one of them for my initiation. 

“Don’t pretend to be stupid, Stiles. You’ll be killing Derek, of course.” 

The air that leaves Derek’s body is too much like a sigh of relief. 

“Do it, Stiles,” Derek says. “Agree. End this. For everyone.” 

Stiles looks at him, sees how much he _wants_ Stiles to do it. Because it’s not really about them. This is about Derek being Derek. 

“We have an _agreement_ about you sacrificing yourself for everyone. That you’re not supposed to,” Stiles tells him with a stern look. “Or did you forget?”

“If he’s _willing_ …” Deucalion says with a little smirk. 

Stiles shakes his head. “Yeah, well, _I_ ’m not.”

“ _Stiles_ —“

“Derek, if you try to tell me to do this, _so help me_ …” Jesus, Stiles is probably going to get himself killed, isn’t he? “Dude, what do you even _want_? Your pack has been here for, what, eight months? What are you even _doing here_?”

“I’m building a pack, Stiles. I should think that would be clear.”

Stiles huffs a sigh. “Look, Derek’s not going to join you. Scott’s not going to join you. _I_ ’m not going to join you. And even _if_ you could convince someone to, you couldn’t ever trust them. Whatever you would have to do to get one of us to join would make us hate you too much. We’d always be a threat. There is literally _no way_ for you to get what you want from one of us. So why don’t you just _leave_?” Deucalion frowns and doesn’t quite _stare_ at Stiles, but it feels like it. It feels like he’s looking into Stiles’ brain and combing through it. 

For a ridiculous amount of time, it’s dead quiet. 

And then Deucalion raises an eyebrow, shrugs. “The human has a point.” 

 _Holy shit_.

Everyone can probably hear Stiles’ heart pounding right now because _holy shit did that actually work_?

“Derek’s useless to me, Scott’s loyalties aren’t able to be corrupted, and _this one_ ’s…well, I think I’d like him to come for us on his own. When he’s ready.” He focuses in on Stiles again. “I hope you consider this an invitation. If your circumstances change, I trust you’ll be able to find us. You’d make a remarkable wolf, boy.” 

He has a line in his head, but he bites his lip to hold it back. Wouldn’t be good to fuck this up. If this is even happening. Fuck. What?

“Come on,” Deucalion says, “it’s time to make that visit to Georgia.” He holds out his arm and Ennis, the nearest, takes it and they just _leave_. They just fucking _walk away_. 

Stiles stands there with an open mouth. 

Because they’re _going_. They’re just…done. Months of stupid dangerous bullshit and they’re just _over it_. 

His gape turns into a grin, like he hasn’t grinned in _ages_. 

“Guys, did you _see_ that?” He looks around and _everyone_ ’s dumbfounded. “I just defeated them with _words_.” He turns to Derek. “Wait, does this mean that I get to be alpha now? Because that was _awesome!_ ” 

That breaks the silence. Scott’s the first one to whoop and throw himself at Stiles, tackle him to the forest floor. Stiles is grinning and laughing when Isaac jumps on, then two more impacts, and they’re just in a laughing pile of sheer _relief_.

It’s when he’s spitting out leaves that he sees a pair of boots, the one werewolf not joining the _I love Stiles_ club. 

Derek’s just staring at him with this stupid, inscrutable look. 

Well, not that inscrutable, actually. 

Because Stiles knows Derek’s _pissed_ face _really_ well, and this its a close relative. At least a first cousin. Maybe a brother. 

It’s not that hard to crawl out from under the puppy pile, actually, because it somehow turned into something resembling a tickle fight and everyone’s moving around. So Stiles gets out, gets to his feet, just in time to see Chris, Allison, and Lydia running into the clearing. Allison and Lydia are grinning and Chris looks like he’s actually been able to take a shit in the past week, so he must be fucking _overjoyed_. 

Lydia surges forwards and hugs him tight, almost too tight. It’s kind of sudden, but he pats her back while she squeezes him like a sponge. 

“Wow, uh, I love you too?” he says, and she pulls away. 

“Thank you. For not letting everyone die partially because of me.” Her eyes are serious and wide and he nods because he _gets_ that. Gets it really well. 

“You’d do the same for me,” he tells her. “That’s what friends are for.” Her grin at that is contagious and she hugs him again, not quite as suffocating and far shorter. This time, she gives him a peck on the cheek when she draws back. 

“You’re okay, Stiles,” she says with a nod, and it’s final. 

Scott’s up by then, brushing dead leaves off his shirt, and he says, “Alright, can we celebrate or something?”

“Howabout everyone goes home and gets a good night’s sleep?” Allison offers with a smile and a quirk to her brow that her father can’t see. 

“Yeah,” Scott says, nodding. “That’s a really good idea. Let’s do that.” He joins her, running a hand through his hair and very pointedly not touching her. 

“Or we could always kill Peter,” Lydia says with a shrug. “That sounds like a celebration to me.” 

“ _No_ ,” Derek says. “I’ll grant a vote on it, but not until tomorrow morning. Allison’s right. We’ve been running too hard for too long. Everyone go home and get some rest. Got it?” 

“Aye-aye, sir,” Isaac says with a jaunty salute. 

Cora pops onto her toes to give Derek a peck on the cheek. “See you tomorrow, big bro.” She chases after Isaac, butting against his shoulder. Boyd rolls his eyes and follows after them.

“ _We have ground rules, Allison_ ,” Stiles hears retreating behind him. Lydia touches his shoulder and when he turns, she gives him a calculating look. 

“I think Derek wants to have a _serious talk_ ,” she says, slipping his keys out of his pocket. “If you survive it, you can find your car at your house.” He opens his mouth to say _something_ , but she already dashing off after the others. Stiles watches them disappear up the embankment, their steps fading until he can’t hear them over the sound of his own breathing, and then he turns. 

Derek’s looking at the dark sky, not at him, but when Stiles opens his mouth, he holds up a finger. For what feels like two hours, they stand there, Stiles with half a word formed in his throat. 

When Derek’s finger drops, Stiles’ mouth closes and he’s really not sure what he was going to say anyway. 

“I guess you’re my ride,” he manages. It brings the full force Derek’s attention on him, and suddenly, he’s not so sure if that’s a good thing. Derek takes one step towards him, then another and another, and his face is so _set_ that Stiles retreats. Retreats until his back hits a tree and Derek’s in his face.

“That was stupid,” Derek tells him. 

Stiles nods. 

“That was a gamble.” 

Again, he nods.

“It was good,” Derek says. “Never do it again.” 

“What, am I supposed to—“ Derek kisses him, cutting him off completely with a tongue in his mouth, a hand in his hair. Really, it’s less of a kiss and more of a tactical silencing maneuver. He opens Stiles up like a box and pulls the words out. 

Derek’s mouth is rough and a little too forceful to be spot-on, so his stubble scrapes all over Stiles’ mouth and cheeks. With the bark at his back, it’s painful in a good way. The kind of way that makes him think he’s alive and awake. It’s not a dream, they’re alive, and what it comes down to is them in the woods in the middle of the night. It feels like this moment is _supposed_ to happen.

Stiles gasps for breath when Derek pulls back.

“I’m serious, though. Never again.” He ducks in and nips at the underside of Stiles’ jaw. “ _Never again_ ,” he repeats. His stubble rubs against the little bite, intense enough to draw a little noise from Stiles.

“What was that?” Stiles asks, grinning. “Do it _next time I’m in trouble_? Yeah, got it—“

“I’m going to kill you myself,” Derek tells him, making eye contact now. He pushes Stiles’ shoulder against the tree a little. 

Stiles smirks. “Let me guess: you’re so mad you just want to _tear_ _my clothes off_.” 

Derek narrows his eyes, then his expression turns nonchalant. He _shrugs_. “I dunno…” he says, and Stiles almost doesn’t notice the hand slipping around to his ass. It slides over him, down, coaxing Stiles’ leg up and around him. “I think I kind of like the look of a thigh holster on you.” His fingers sweep across the back of Stiles’ thigh, right where the holster sits, edging underneath it. 

“I can’t help that I’m hot and dangerous,” Stiles tells him with a wild, messy smile. 

He’s thinking about the look in Derek’s eyes and how he wants whatever Derek’s willing to give him, but he’s trying something here. The idea is positive reinforcement — when Derek does something Stiles likes, he gets a sexual favor. That had been the idea behind suggesting he blow Derek in the first place, and if Stiles benefits, well, that’s mutualism at work. The idea _now_ is that he’s trying to get Derek to connect letting Stiles handle shit and keep him from throwing himself onto his sword with good sexy things. It’s totally going to work.

“So, I’m thinking I want you to fuck me,” Stiles says casually while Derek gropes his thigh. “As a reward for me saving your ass. I think I earned it.” Derek’s hand creeps up to Stiles’ ass and he stares Stiles’ mouth, like he’s having trouble understanding his words. It’s a _long_ look. “If that’s okay with you, I mean. If you don’t want to, that’s a-okay.”

“No,” Derek says, nodding. He ducks in and rubs his face against Stiles’ throat, a little sharp and strange. “ _I want to_ ,” he breathes against Stiles’ neck.

“Awesome. Well, it’s not happening in the middle of the woods, big guy, so what do you say we get out of here?”

Derek pulls away, letting Stiles’ leg fall. “It’s only a fifteen minute run,” he says and _wow, eager much_?

“Dude, I am _not_ running. Especially not at your pace. I mean, if you want me to _pass out_ , dude, yeah. But I’d rather be conscious, you know?”

“I could carry you,” Derek offers. 

“Um…” Stiles scratches the back of his head. “So, I have this weird little thing called _dignity,_ and it won’t let me be carried like your captured bride.”

“I meant on my back.”

Stiles sighs. “That would just be a really inappropriate boner, okay? Come on. Your dick’s not going to fall off.”

“I _know_ that,” Derek says with a sharp look. “Forget it. If you want a long, awkward walk, then that’s what you’re going to get.” He starts tromping off through the leaves. _Jesus_. He’s the moodiest, weirdest dude. 

He sure walks fast, though, because he’s already almost to the bottom of the embankment.

That won’t do.

Making up his mind, Stiles chases after him, laughing a little as he leaps and crashes into Derek’s back with an _oof!_ Derek catches him fine like that, grabbing onto Stiles’ legs. Even though Stiles can’t see his face, he thinks there might be a little smile there. Maybe. He _feels_ like he’s smiling.

“I thought this was an inappropriate boner?” Derek asks, shifting Stiles up a little so he can hold on without an choking going on.

“Yeah, well, I did a risk-benefit analysis. I figured that the secret joy of knowing that you once gave me a piggy back ride would outweigh any possible embarrassment. Besides, it’s not like me getting a stiffy around you is exactly _new_.” 

“I don’t know why I keep you around,” Derek says with what sounds like a grimace. “Hold on.” 

When he starts running, Stiles holds on tight, unable to keep a grin off his face. But in his mind, he’s thinking about Derek admitting that he keeps him around. That there’s some intent there. That’s…well, that’s awesome, actually. Because as much as Stiles is glad he’s appreciated for sex purposes, being appreciated for _not_ -sex purposes is kind of nice. Really nice, actually. 

To be perfectly honest, Stiles does not specifically dislike Derek. He dislikes some of Derek’s choices, especially the stupid ones that would end up with him dead if Stiles didn’t intervene. And the ones that involve Peter being around, but at this point, he thinks of Peter as something like an abnormal mole that’s probably skin cancer but it’s shaped like the bat signal so he’s hesitating to ask a doctor about it. They’ll get around to killing him _eventually_. Just not exactly now. 

 _Anyway_ , the point is that he’s kind of cool with Derek as a dude and the idea of Derek being cool with _him_ as a dude is pretty sweet. 

Theoretically, they could actually become _friends_ with benefits. Which could be pretty awesome. 

Or something. Derek probably doesn’t have a lot of practice being friends with people, so maybe it wouldn’t be, like, the _best_. Like, Derek is never going to be Scott. Ever. But that’s good because the idea of getting naked with Scott is bad-weird. Especially the things he wants to _do_ to Derek.

Nope, bad thoughts. Bad thoughts for running around in the woods.

It looks like Derek parked in a totally different place than Stiles, which is totally for the best, but then his car isn’t in the parking lot that he slows at. That hot-ass Camaro is nowhere in sight. 

There is, however, a soccer mom car. 

Did Derek commit grand theft auto? Shit, if Derek gets arrested again, that’s _bad_. Really bad. 

But he stops at the car, drops Stiles’ legs, and gets out a set of keys. The car beeps at them, lights blinking. Which means that Derek has keys that unlock it. 

“Dude, is this car _yours_?” Stiles asks, scratching his head. 

“ _Yes_ , Stiles. Get in.”

That’s when it clicks.

“Wait,” Stiles says, “so Scott wasn’t joking a few weeks back when he said you traded in your sex car for a Toyota. That’s— Holy _shit_ , dude. Are you _settling down_?”

“What? _No_ , Jesus—“

Stiles shakes his head. “No, you’re living in place with electricity, you have this _car_ , and Isaac tells me you helped him with his homework the other day. I think you’re becoming Papa Derek. It’s a slippery slope, dude. Next: _throw pillows_.” 

“I’ll _throw some pillows_ ,” Derek grumbles, getting into the car. 

“Dude, that’s not even a _threat_. That’s a slumber party. You’re describing a slumber party. Who _are_ you?” 

Derek rolls down the window, leans over. “Look, either get in the car, or I’m leaving you here.”

“You’re so _touchy_ ,” Stiles says, yanking open the door. As he gets in, he checks out the back. “Oh, _that_ ’s why. You could probably fit a threesome back here. You sly dog you.” 

The look Derek gives him could melt glaciers. He’s pissed in that Derek way that means he’s probably also a little bit horny. The thing about them having sex is that Stiles thinks Derek’s body is starting to confuse being annoyed with being about to get some. He’s given Stiles _looks_ , when he speaks and they’re with everyone else. Those times suck because those looks are pretty much all Stiles needs to get him going, but if they’re, say, at school, he can’t do anything about it. Not if he doesn’t want any of the others to know. If they don’t. He just kind of _assumes_ they don’t.

“Hey,” Stiles asks when they’re on the road, “does anyone else know about this?” 

Derek glances at him, hands shifting on the wheel. “No. I don’t think so. Should they?”

“Um, _no_ , man. Scott would _probably_ try to kill you. Or me. He’d be pissed, I mean. Like he doesn’t _hate_ you, but I think it’s a little soon for you to be boning his best friend. And fuck Isaac. He’s a little shit, and not the way you are. He’d give me so much shit about it. He’d give _you_ so much shit about it.”

Derek nods, drumming his thumbs against the wheel. His eyes flick up to the rear view mirror. His body moves in little twitches and shifts, like he’s uneasy. 

“I think Cora might suspect something,” he says at last. “She didn’t seem to care, though. For _some_ reason, I think she likes you.” 

“Okay, when you say _suspect_ , what do you mean, exactly?” 

“She…” Derek sighs. “Alright, she knows. When you fell asleep at my place that one time, I think she started wondering, and when she found out that the reason you skipped out on being the getaway was because you were with me, she asked me about it.”

“You _told_ her?” Stiles asks, gaping. 

Derek shakes his head. “Not really. It’s just— it’s hard to lie. She knows my tells. She said…she said she wouldn’t tell anyone until we were _ready_.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, grimacing. “Jesus, that makes it sound like we’re _dating_.”

Dead silence. 

“You told her we’re _dating_?!” Stiles asks, grabbing the arm hold for emotional support. “Oh my _God_ , you are the dumbest dumb person I’ve ever met.” Derek’s hands tighten on the wheel, but Stiles doesn’t give a _fuck_ if he’s pissed.

“Look, it’s not like I _meant_ to give her that impression, but she said I wasn’t forming healthy relationships, so maybe I _implied_ that it wasn’t what it was. I didn’t want to risk her stepping in or telling anyone else because she didn’t like it. So I told her we weren’t ready to share with anyone else just yet, and she promised to keep it to herself.” 

Stiles huffs, crossing his arms over his chest, but really, that’s probably what he would’ve done. If Scott asked him? Yeah, he’d be pleading secret boyfriend for sure. Something tells him it wouldn’t be a good idea to admit that it’s just physical. For Derek, at least. 

“Wait, is she going to be weird about it, then?” Stiles asks. “Like, is she going to do weird eyebrow stuff or make any weird comments? Because I _did not_ sign up for this.”

“Well, no one’s making you,” Derek snaps. “I can just take you home.”

Stiles gives him a look. “ _Not_ what I meant.”

Derek goes into full sulk mode and Stiles is _pissed_ because, okay, if anyone has a right to be be pissed, it’s Derek, but some weird little part of him wishes he wouldn’t be. Like, maybe it would be cool if the idea of people thinking that he’s dating Stiles isn’t completely repulsive to him. Sure, if anyone has something to lose here, it’s Derek. Stiles is obviously not the catch in this equation. But for some stupid, stupid reason, he wants Derek to think he’s at least mildly _acceptable_. 

For self-esteem reasons.

But Derek’s being a major buttface, and he doesn’t chill out when they get to his apartment. He looks like he wants to punch through a wall, actually. With his face. 

“Maybe I should just go,” Stiles says when they get to Derek’s door. 

Derek still looks pissed as fuck, but now he actually turns it on Stiles. “I don’t care. It’s not like I can’t get it somewhere else.” 

Stiles gapes at him, holding himself back because he does _not_ need to break his hand on Derek’s face right now. 

“You’re such a _bastard_ ,” Stiles tells him.

“Yeah? Then why don’t you leave?” His face has this weird look to it, underneath the anger, and Stiles knows how to read Derek. He’s _good_ at reading Derek. 

“Because I think you’re being an idiot right now.” Stiles sighs. “You’re pissed. I’m pissed. But I’m here because I want to fuck you, and I think you’re at least _kind of_ into that idea. So why don’t we sublimate our anger into good sex instead of yelling at each other?”

Derek looks at him for a second, then hauls him in by his shirt. He doesn’t go for the kiss — he gets a hand in Stiles’ hair, pulls his head back, and bites his lip. It’s not quite unexpected and it hurts, when Derek tugs a little, with his teeth, but it gets Stiles hard in a heartbeat. Yeah, he’s fucked up. Who fucking cares. And if he makes a pathetic noise when Derek releases him, only the two of them hear it. 

For a second, Stiles thinks he’s done, but Derek’s just getting the door open, moving him inside like he’s something to be moved. 

“I want you to know, I’m not going to hold back,” Stiles tells him as he kicks the door closed. 

“ _Good_ ,” Derek says and then he’s in Stiles’ space, crowding him against the door. Stiles bites Derek’s mouth, maybe too hard, but the _noise_ Derek makes…

His fists are in Derek’s shirt and it feels so natural to just _yank_ , to rip it apart. Derek’s eyes go red for a second there and he jerks his hips against Stiles. Yeah, he feels like a fucking badass, but only for about a second because Derek’s shoving his thigh between Stiles’, and it feels _so fucking good_ , for a blind moment, he almost thinks he’s coming. 

Derek shrugs off his ripped shirt, apparently taking it to mean that Stiles’ clothes are all fair game. When Stiles bites his jaw, he flicks up a claw and slices his shirt from collar to hem. He shoves the holster down over Stiles’ shoulders, and there’s a sound like it’s tearing, but Stiles really can’t bring himself to care. It’s too much and he’s pressed against the door too hard, and he wants to yell or something, so he sucks _hard_ at Derek’s throat instead. 

Everything’s cold and somehow weightless for a moment, but that’s just Derek flipping him around so his chest is against the door. Stiles doesn’t have much room for movement, but he can shove his ass back, grind against Derek in a way he can’t ignore. 

He undoes his own pants, cursing when he realizes that he can’t get his khakis down because of the stupid fucking thigh holster. Derek gets that, though, undoes it a little too rough. Rough enough that he’s probably a little bruised, but he doesn’t give a fuck. He can get his pants down and that’s all that matters. 

“Jesus, what the fuck are _these_?” Derek rumbles against his back. One of his hands holds the back of Stiles’ neck, pressing his cheek agains the door. The other slips down to Stiles’ underwear, feeling his ass through the material. 

“ _New_ , dumbass,” Stiles grits out. “I thought the red was fitting.” 

“You could say that.” The hand on his ass slides underneath the waistband, going in to press a dry finger against his hole. It would be a dirty lie to say Stiles doesn’t groan at that, but he’d deny it anyway. That finger just _rubs_ , a little too rough to be good, a little to soft to be enough. 

Stiles draws a shaky breath. “We doing this right here?” Derek’s finger presses inside, just the tip, and Stiles _keens_. 

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you? You want it so bad, you’ll take it wherever I want to give it.” His dick twitches at that, but in his head, he knows it’s wrong, that it’s so fucked up. His body just won't get the message.

“Not your _whore_ ,” Stiles hisses. He has to clamp his mouth shut when Derek crooks the tip of his finger, just rubbing at the rim of his hole from the inside. It’s too fucking good and he’s sure as _hell_ not going to let Derek know that. 

Derek’s stubble rubs back and forth against shoulder for a moment and then he _licks_. “I never said I was paying you,” he breathes, hot against Stiles’ ear. “I probably would, for you, like this. But you’ll let me have you anyway.”

“ _I hate you_ ,” Stiles tells him, but it comes out with the edge of a moan. 

Derek doesn’t call him on the lie. 

“Say it,” he says instead. His teeth graze Stiles’ ear. “I need you to say it,” he repeats. Stiles shuts his eyes, afraid of what Derek wants him to say. Because he’s pretty sure that right now? An _I love you_ wouldn’t be a lie. 

“What? Say _what_?” 

His mouth feels numb and cold until Derek finds it. The angle is wrong, but Derek’s lips brush over his, open and breath-hot. It’s not _really_ a kiss, and it makes Stiles want to beg or fight, but he holds still. Lets Derek’s teeth scrape against his mouth until he can’t stand it anymore. 

“What do you want me to say?” he whispers. He won’t open his eyes. He won’t look at Derek. Doesn’t want to see if his face is hard or soft. Both feel right. 

“I need you to say you’ll let me have you.” His rough chin rubs against Stiles’ lips. They’re sensitive and it hurts, but he feels like he’s missing something when Derek pulls his face away. The hand on the back of Stiles’ neck releases him, trails down his back, almost too warm. “ _Please_ ,” Derek says, and it sounds like he’s far away. Like the word is too small for his mouth and the inches of space between them. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, because it’s the _please_ that gets him. “You can have me.” 

His mouth opens when Derek slips his finger out of Stiles’ ass, and Derek’s turning him around.

“ _Shoes_ ,” Derek says, and Stiles scrambles to toe off his shoes, letting Derek push his pants down. It puts him on his knees, and maybe Stiles goes dizzy for a second at the sight of Derek on his knees in front of him. He rubs his cheek against the top of Stiles’ thigh as he lifts his legs out of his pants. When he looks at the wet spot at the front of Stiles’ briefs, he smirks and stands. 

When Derek cups the backs of his’ thighs instead of his ass, he gets what that means and holds onto Derek’s shoulders so he can jump, wrap his legs around his waist. The easy way Derek carries him turns him on and pisses him off in equal measure. He deals with it because Derek squeezes his ass like he can’t _not_. 

“You gonna take me to your bed? Gonna spread me out and call me beautiful?” Stiles asks with a sharp grin. 

“Shut up,” Derek tells him, and Stiles feels it when his knee hits the bed, pretends he doesn’t notice that Derek’s arms stop him from dropping too hard. He unhooks his legs, lets Derek kneel between them in his jeans. Fuck, he looks like the best kind of dirty dream. The line of his erection makes Stiles’ mouth water a little, and, shamelessly, he runs a hand over his own dick. Derek’s eyes track his hand, and he’s just _staring_ , really. 

“ _Draw me like one of your French girls_ ,” Stiles teases and Derek rolls his eyes, getting up. He digs under the pillow, pulls out a bottle of lube and tosses it next to Stiles. While he kicks off his shoes, Stiles grabs it, squirts a drop on his finger just to feel it. “Do we need a condom? I mean, obviously, I don’t have anything, but I don’t know if werewolves can get venereal disease so…”

“Nope.” Derek pauses. “I got a box, though. If you’d rather me use one.”

Yeah, Stiles isn’t going to overanalyze that one. Not good for his emotions. Not good at all.

“Prepared, aren’t you?” Stiles asks with a cocky smirk. Yeah, okay, it’s a little bit fake. He’s a touch nervous. For obvious reasons. But Derek bought him condoms he doesn’t need and maybe that makes him feel a little bit better about all of this. Like he’s in good hands. 

“Would it kill you to not be an asshole for two minutes?” Derek asks, unbuttoning his jeans. 

Stiles shrugs, reading the label on the lube. “Nah, but I’m pretty sure if I was nice, you wouldn’t be able to get it up.” While Derek snorts, Stiles catches something on the label. “You got _chocolate_ flavored? Dude. _Come on_. That’s too much. Just too much. I never got why they flavor it, anyway.”

Derek stops, hands on his zipper, one stupid eyebrow cocked. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, I mean, you’re making things slippery, you’re not putting your mouth— Oh. _Oh_.” Stiles feels really hot all over and he’s probably blotchy red but _that_ is a thing he’s going to think about sometime when he’s alone. “Nevermind. Good purchasing decision. Wait, is it—“ Stiles licks the little bit on his fingers. It’s sweet and obviously artificial, but probably better than the alternative. “Could be worse,” he decides. 

“Well, I’m glad you approve.” Derek’s hands are still at the top of his jeans. “Do you want me to…?”

“No!” Stiles regrets that instantly. “I mean, you don’t have to? I was kind of unprepared for that, mentally. I mean, I’ve seen some good rimming in porn, but I was kind of focused on the main event tonight. If you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, alright. I don’t mind,” Derek says and he looks _supremely_ uncomfortable. Just _standing_ there. And Stiles is just laying there and they’re kind of looking at each other and it’s _weird_. It’s really weird. Danny was totally wrong about the communicating thing because _this_ is an awkward moment Stiles could live without ever having. 

“You’re an asshole and I always make better decisions than you, so you should listen to me more and stop being a martyring little shit,” Stiles says, and Derek’s eyes narrow. He shoves his jeans and underwear down in one go. 

As he gets on the bed, he says, “You’re a cocky idiot who doesn’t know when to shut up. Even when you’re wrong. Which you _are_. You just can’t admit it.”

“Out of everyone I’ve ever met, I hate you the most,” Stiles returns. He grabs Derek by the ears and pulls him down to his face. “You’re the worst person I know.” He arches up, catches Derek’s lower lip in his mouth and _sucks_. When he releases it, Derek licks his mouth, like all he wants is to get him wet. Their bodies press together, chest to groin, and Stiles is pretty sure that at some point, he knew how to close his legs, but he’s forgotten somehow. 

“I wish I never met you,” Derek pants against his mouth.

The best part is, Derek can probably tell he’s lying, but he doesn’t know how much. Can’t prove that Stiles means the opposite of everything he says, pretty much. (He wants to think Derek’s doing the same, but he won’t let himself.)

“You want me so bad, don’t you?” Stiles asks. A little thrust of his hips is all he needs to confirm it. “You act like it’s just me, but it’s not, is it? You want me even though you shouldn’t. Even though there’s no reason to.” 

Stiles is pretty sure he doesn’t imagine that little whimper, but it might be that he’s scratching lines across Derek’s back. 

“If you want me so bad, then why don’t you _fuck me_ already?”

Derek lifts up his chest up, caging Stiles in with an arm on either side of his head. “Don’t say unless you mean it.” Stiles grabs his ass and grinds up, hard. It feels so good he almost doesn’t see Derek’s mouth fall open. “I want to _wreck_ you,” Derek says, catching himself, and it’s almost like a plea. 

“Dare you try.”

With a little smile, Derek pulls back. His warm fingers graze Stiles’ sides as he drags off Stiles’ briefs. The slap of his dick against his stomach is loud over the barely-audible sound of their breath. As is the pop of the cap to the lube. Derek grabs a pillow and tosses it to Stiles.

“Flip over,” he tells him, and Stiles throws him a wink as he does, wiggling his butt in the air a little as he gets on his hands and knees. A warm hand settles on one cheek. The bed sinks as Derek closes in behind him between his legs. 

“Don’t spank me,” Stiles says softly as Derek smooths a hand over his backside. “I don’t like being hit.”

The hand withdraws and there’s a squirt somewhere behind him. He times it in his head, visualizing Derek smearing lube on his fingers and reaching forward. Only the slick touch doesn’t come. 

“What is it?”

“I’ve never actually done anal before,” Derek says. It’s very quiet, and for a moment, Stiles thinks he heard wrong. 

He turns so he can look Derek in the eyes. “Dude, what, are you _straight_?”

Derek shrugs. “I’d blown a couple guys, a while ago, but that’s it. And I’ve…there was a woman. A long time ago. That’s all.” 

“You’re nervous,” Stiles guesses with not a little awe.

“I don’t know what it’s like to not heal. I could hurt you. I’d rather not.” His face is drawn tight and he looks _extremely_ uncomfortable. Stiles feels a _tiny_ bit bad, but he’s also weirdly fascinated by the topic of Derek’s sexual history. Because if _he_ looked like that? He’d probably fuck anyone willing. 

“Okay, so that other time…was that the only time you’ve fingered a dude?”

“Other than myself, yeah,” Derek says, and _whoa_ , Stiles has to shut his eyes for a moment because _damn_ that’s a good visual. Yeah, Derek jerking off, shoving his fingers— “Look, if it’s a problem, we can do something else.” His tone is sharper, annoyed, maybe, or embarrassed. 

Stiles shakes his head. “Nope. We’re good. I trust you with my life — I think it’s safe to say I trust you with my butt.”

Derek snorts at that, but he asks, “You’ll tell me if I do something wrong?”

“Dude, when have you known me to be _quiet_? Come on. Give me a little credit.” Stiles flips over, presenting himself a little. “Go for it, big guy.”

One of Derek’s fingers finds his hole and Stiles forces himself to be calm. Derek rubs circles around his rim, a tease, really, until it’s easy for him to push in. Stiles hums at it. When he does this himself, he can never get in far because of the angle, but Derek’s finger sinks in until his knuckles are against Stiles’ ass. He twists a little, experimenting, and it’s _nice_ , but Stiles really wants more than this.

“Gimme another,” he says, ducking his head. 

He can see Derek’s thighs between his. There’s never going to be a time when he’s not a little bit flabbergasted that he would— 

“Ah, _fuck_ ,” Stiles pants as Derek presses another finger in. Derek stills at that, and Stiles shakes his head. “No, that’s good, yeah,” he says. “Don’t stop.”

Derek rocks his fingers gently before pulling out a little so he can push back in. They’re bigger than Stiles’, that’s for sure, because Derek’s hands are huge, and it’s _way_ better than what Stiles can do on his own. The way they fill him, get deeper than he ever could, it’s enough to make his dick drip onto the bedspread.

When Derek’s rough cheek rubs against his back, he gasps, more in surprise than anything else, and unconsciously clenches around Derek’s fingers. _That’s_ fucking _great_. With a little noise, he presses back, trying to get a little more. What he gets is Derek’s fingers spreading and twisting and—

“Oh _yeah_ ,” he moans. It’s embarrassing because he’s pretty sure the way it comes out is like a really bad porn actor, but he’s pretty sure that Derek hit the edge of his prostate. _Damn_. 

Derek repeats the motion, curling this time, down a little, and the whine that comes out of Stiles’ mouth is, unfortunately, one hundred percent real. He’s pretty sure he has half an orgasm, actually, and his dick is leaking like a broken faucet, Jesus. 

“I— _fuck,_ Jesus, do that again!” Yeah, he’s going to die. Death by fingering. Fuck. “ _Wait_ ,” he says, and Derek stills immediately. “I need to come. If I don’t do it now, I’m not going to last two seconds with your dick in me, okay?” 

For a moment, Derek doesn’t acknowledge that, but then he says, “That’s a good idea. I think I might— yeah, me too.” Shit, okay, Stiles shouldn’t think that’s hot, but he does. The idea of Derek not being able to last makes him feel _awesome._

Derek’s fingers start moving again, finding his prostate easier and just _rubbing_.

He barely hears the slick sounds of Derek jerking off over his little whimpered _fuck_ s. 

One touch to his dick and he comes so hard he thinks there might be a tear or two. He’s not sure because he’s trying to remember who he is, what it feels like to have a body, and when he remembers it’s because of the hot splatter across the small of his back. 

“ _Dude_ ,” Stiles sighs. “ _Really_? That’s gonna be so gross in a few minutes.”

But Derek starts rubbing his come into Stiles’ skin like he’s fucking finger painting or something. It’s weird, but it’s not bad-weird yet, not until it dries and Stiles has to deal with it. He’s willing to overlook it if they start fucking sometime soon. 

That’s not really Derek’s plan, apparently. 

His fingers are still in Stiles’ ass, but he adds a third. It slips in easy, maybe because he’s stretched or relaxed as shit after coming. It’s easy, but it’s not enough. The fullness is more than he’s ever had, and it’s so _sweet_. Maybe his ass is just sensitive right now, but the push-drag of Derek’s fingers makes him hot all over. Like he has a fever. His skin is sensitive, and when he lowers himself down, onto his elbows instead of his palms, the soft bedspread is almost too much. 

“I could do this forever,” Derek tells him, twisting a little, enough to make Stiles’ breath hitch in his throat. “You just _open_ for me. Like you _need_ it.” His thrusts turn a little rougher and Stiles can’t close his mouth anymore. He feels so fucking _alive_.

“Don’t pretend you don’t,” he manages. 

Derek leans over him, chin rubbing against Stiles’ shoulder blade, and his dick presses against the curve of Stiles’ ass. He’s getting hard again, shit, that’s hot. The scrape of his face across Stiles’ back is maybe a little bit too much for his nerves, but he’s so distracted by the fingers fucking into him that he can’t say anything. Maybe doesn’t want to. 

He presses back, trying to get a little deeper, and Derek bites his shoulder. Sucks, licking his skin, and Stiles is trying to lean into that too much to realize that Derek’s pinky is pressing at his rim. Waiting for him to let it in. When Derek’s teeth graze over the hickey he’s left, it’s enough and _fuck_. 

Derek leans back, one hand coming to rest over his spine. He’s probably looking. He’s probably watching. 

“I wish you could see this,” he says, soft, and his thumb strokes at Stiles’ rim. It makes him shake, it’s too much tension for his body and not enough. 

“ _Please_ ,” Stiles begs, and he’s not proud of that. “I’m ready, just give it to me, _fuck_.” 

Derek’s fingers draw out slow until he’s closing around nothing, and for a second, Stiles thinks he’s finally going to get what he needs. But Derek’s a bastard, just presses his thumb in, twisting. 

“You’re so open for me, Christ. I don’t even…” He trails off like he’s in _awe_ , and Stiles can’t take it, so he reaches back, just to see, and _yeah_. He slips three fingers in next to Derek’s thumb and his body just _accepts_ it. He’s so _wet_. Derek groans at that, a low, needy sound. “Can I? I need to—“

“Yeah, fuck, do it,” Stiles says, pulling out. 

There’s a squirt of more lube and a soft _shlick_ as Derek coats himself and then _that’s_ the head of his cock. Right there, rubbing over his hole, catching on the rim because Stiles body is trying to pull him in, _needs_ him in. 

Stiles looks back, jaw tight. “I said _do it_ , not _play with it_.” That’s enough to get Derek to push in, just enough to get the head inside, and Stiles is fucking _done_ , so he braces himself on his elbows and _shoves_ back. Until his cheeks hit Derek’s hips and god _damn_. He’s— It’s not like anything. It’s just this bizarre, perfect fullness, like he just found his missing piece. Like he’s whole now. 

Derek’s fingers clutch his hips a little too tight and he’s not moving. The tension in his body leaches into the air. 

“If you’re holding back, I swear to _God_ —“

That’s all Stiles gets out because Derek pulls out a little and shoves back in and its enough to make him reach out and grab the covers. He does it again and Stiles fingers grip the comforter tighter, knuckles going white, and everything’s just so _right_. It’s slow and hard and Stiles bites his arm to hold back the whimper he wants to let out. Derek holds onto him like he’s afraid Stiles is going to fall, even though that’s impossible. 

The drag of Derek’s cock tethers him to his body. His skin feels too small, his pulse too big, like something’s trying to scratch its way out. But Derek’s keeping him together. And when he leans over Stiles’ back, arms wrapping around his middle, it’s like he’s keeping Stiles inside of himself. 

His chin reaches to Stiles’ shoulder as he pumps in with short, spaced thrusts that force Stiles’ breath from his lungs. 

“I wish I could have you like this forever.” It’s quiet and rough, close to Stiles’ ear, and he _shivers_ , even though he’s too warm. “I wish I could keep you here and fuck you until we fall asleep. I never want to be outside you.”

Stiles maybe whines at that, but he nods, fast. 

Yeah, he could do that. 

Just fuck until there’s nothing but Derek’s body crashing into his like a wreck, like it’s going to break them both apart. Until he can’t remember when they were separate people. Until he can feel Derek’s body like it’s a part of his own. 

Derek licks the skin over his shoulder, tongue a little rough, but soothing. 

“You taste so good,” he murmurs, lips brushing Stiles’ skin. “I don’t ever wanna forget how you taste.”

He shifts a little and it’s _terrifying_ , like he’s going to leave, so Stiles grabs him by the back of the neck, just holds him there. Derek makes a noise like a _purr_ , sweet and deep, and Stiles can feel it all the way inside. Can feel the vibration of it through his cock where it’s buried inside him. 

It’s…well, it’s too much. It’s too tender. His body is overwhelmed and he feels like he’s _loved_ , and that’s not safe. Not for him. Because he could fall in love for this. Maybe he already has a little. 

“ _Harder_ ,” Stiles tells him, afraid of himself. “Fuck me like you mean it. Like you need to.”

“Yeah?” Derek asks, punctuating with a sharp thrust that punches the air from his lungs. One of his arms releases Stiles’ ribs, and for a moment, the abandonment hurts, but then Derek’s fingers are pushing into his mouth. Stiles sucks on them instinctively while Derek picks up the pace. The sound of their skin slapping is a dirty, wet sound that would probably get him hard if he wasn’t. Because he _is_ , God, he is. His ass is a major distraction from it and honestly, he doesn’t _need_ to pay attention to it. The way Derek’s pounding into him is enough to make Jesus _weep_. 

Derek moves him a little, makes him arch his back a little and stick his ass up more, and he’s pretty sure he _sobs_. The angle makes Derek’s dick drum against his prostate and _fuck_ , he’s grateful for those fingers in his mouth because otherwise he’d probably be saying something he’d regret later. 

“That what you need? Gonna come from just my cock? I bet you can,” Derek says right at his ear. There’s a weird strain to his voice, like he’s barely keeping it together. 

“ _Make me_ ,” Stiles tries to say, but it comes out garbled around Derek’s fingers. Maybe his meaning is clear because Derek groans and manages to fuck him faster, faster than Stiles would’ve thought possible. Jesus, he’s so fucking lucky Derek’s a werewolf because this is _fucking ridiculous_. 

When Derek bites his shoulder again, it’s all over. His brain shoots out his dick and his vision goes sort of grey and for a second there, it’s like he doesn’t exist. 

It takes a while for him to come back, and then all he’s aware of, really, is Derek’s body moving his. Too fast, rhythm irregular, and he’s panting hot and wet against Stiles’ skin. His fingers have slipped from Stiles’ mouth, gripping the covers tight right in front of his face. Stiles feels his hands again, finds one in Derek’s hair, tugs a little.

“That’s it,” he says, tilting his ass up. “I want you to come in me. I want to feel it leak out and I want you push it back in and—“ Derek lets out a growl that’s only barely human. As his hips stutter, it fades to a whine. He drags his face over Stiles’ back, pulling out, and when Stiles’ hole flutters at the emptiness, a hot pulse hits it. Before he can really register what’s happening, Derek’s fingers push at his hole and there’s another couple drops. He fingers that in, too, smoothes his thumb over him, and _collapses_ next to Stiles on the bed. Maybe a little bit on top of him. 

Stiles lets his legs stretch out behind him, a little sore, and _totally_ lays in his own wet spot. _Gross_. But he’s too lazy to move, so he ignores it and turns his head to look at Derek. 

His eyes are shut and his face is pink and he just looks _fucked_. 

Considering that he’s pretty sure that he came hard enough to lobotomize himself, Stiles can relate. Like _whoa_.

“We need to do that all the time,” Stiles says. His voice is a little raw. Huh. 

Derek just nods. Like he can’t _form words_. 

Jesus, Stiles might be human, but apparently his ass has _some_ sort of supernatural powers. 

“Why did we wait so long to have sex? We could’ve been doing this for _months_.”

Derek shakes his head, a little frown line forming between his eyebrows. “Couldn’t. Had to wait. Had to be older than me.”

Stiles snorts. “Um, dude, hate to break it to you, but you’re definitely still older than me.”

“No,” Derek says, burying his face into the covers more. “Older than I was. With K—“ Derek’s eyes snap open and his mouth snaps shut. “I don’t want to talk right now.” He closes his eyes again.

“Yeah, no problem,” Stiles says, but he’s got this cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Can I touch you? Not in a weird way, I swear.” Derek nods and Stiles wiggles a little closer, throws his leg over the back of Derek’s thighs, an arm over his back, and listens to the sound of Derek’s breathing until he falls asleep. 

 

* * *

 

 

When Stiles wakes up, his limbs are pretty much tied in knots with Derek’s. 

And he has to pee.

A lot. 

He really fucking has to pee.

But it takes him a stupidly long amount of time to get free because he’s trying not to wake Derek up. And then he’s glued to the comforter with dried jizz. _Lovely_. 

When he’s made it, he ends up standing there, just staring. Derek’s octopusing on the bed the wrong way, one foot and one hand hanging over the edge. His tattoo rises and falls with his breathing and he just looks so _at ease_. Like there’s not a trace of tension in his body. 

It might be the first time Stiles has ever seen him fully relaxed.

Also, his ass is _glorious_. Like, _damn_. Stiles kind of wants to bite it because it’s just—

He needs to pee.

Yes, good idea. Because if Derek wakes up to Stiles jerking off over his ass, he’s probably not going to hesitate to kill Stiles dead. Really dead.

After Stiles has possible one of the best pisses of his life, he catches himself in the mirror.

A little bit of pride swells up in his chest, but he’s also a teeny tiny bit pissed. Because he has hickeys. Multiple hickeys. All over his neck. 

 _When_ —? 

Oh, yeah, that would be the woods. 

And his face, and most of his neck and shoulders, looks rubbed raw. His hair is standing up in every direction. His mouth is a little swollen.

Shit, it doesn’t even look like he got laid. He looks like he got _mauled._ By a sex bear. 

Not _that_ kind of sex bear.

But he seriously looks like some kind of victim, shit. He can’t see anyone today. There’s no way to hide this. Holy shit. 

This is _awesome_. 

When he walks into the kitchen area, there’s a little swagger in his step. He’ll be honest about that. Because he _got laid_. Like a fucking pro. And it was _awesome_. 

He makes coffee because he’s cool and because caffeine is an essential part of his body’s chemical make-up. And then he just kind of leans against the counter, buck naked, and grins. 

Aw yeah.

He’s a bad ass motherfucker. 

If he were a little bit more awake, he might do a little victory dance. But he’s not. He’s really not. It’s still kind of early, too, judging by the time on the microwave. If he hadn’t put on the coffee, he could go back to sleep. But then in all likelihood, he’d probably wake up Derek, and he’s pretty sure cuddling is a fuckbuddy no-no if it’s not post-coital. Maybe also when it’s post-coital. Who knows. 

Kind of sucks because Stiles is a little bit of a cuddle monster. Cuddles are _awesome_. But Derek isn’t exactly cuddly, so that sucks. 

At least Stiles doesn’t _think_ he is. Can’t _really_ be sure.

The coffee’s almost done, the machine gurgling, and the sound covers up the noise of a key turning a lock enough that he doesn’t hear it at first. 

When Cora pushes the door open, Stiles has _just_ enough time to cover up his junk. 

She freezes, but there’s a noise, and it’s _Derek_ , waking up and scrambling around. It would’ve been funny if Stiles wasn’t so sure he was about to _die of embarrassment_. 

“I am _literally_ going to kill you,” Derek says, and for a moment, Stiles thinks he’s talking to him, but he’s not. Cora’s hands fly to her face, one over her eyes, the other pinching her nose shut. 

“I left my phone here yesterday,” she says in a high-pitched, nasal voice as Derek leaps to his feet. “I’m sorry. Shit, do you think if I clawed out my eyes, I’d be able to get these images out of my head?” 

Derek snatches her phone up off the coffee table and hands it to her. “Take it. Go. And forget that you were here.” Fuck, yeah, that’s a great view of his ass. Shit, bad time. 

“But the _smell_ , Derek,” she whines. “Jesus, were you trying to mark your territory? You know that if anyone else comes over here—”

He shuts the door in her face.

Derek groans loudly. For a second, he stands there, scrubs his face with his hands. But he takes a deep breath and turns around. He’s wearing this look he’s really good at, like he regrets each and every second that lead to the present moment. Stiles has never met anyone who can manage it to the degree he can. 

It’s probably the eyebrows.

“That coffee better be almost done,” Derek says at last. He pads over to the kitchen and he just looks so _comfortable_ naked. Granted, if Stiles looked like him, he’d probably be comfortable naked too. 

Well, minus the dried jizz flaking off of him.

 _Fuck_.

“Yeah, it’s just about ready,” Stiles answers, a little late. Derek gets a couple mugs out, and this is _nice_. Moving around a kitchen space with him, shamelessly nude. Weird, but nice. Stiles dumps some sugar into his mug while Derek gets out the milk, but when he looks up, Derek’s staring at him. Well, at his back. 

Stiles twists, trying to see, but it’s useless.

“How bad is it?”

Derek makes a non-committal noise, but he reaches out and brushes his thumb against a spot on Stiles’ shoulder that twinges a little. His eyes don’t leave Stiles’ back, dazed, until he makes a little noise. Derek drops his hand, shrugging like that’ll convince Stiles that he’s totally not into seeing him all marked up.

 _Curious_.

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, they don’t talk about it. Or about anything at all.

Stiles goes home in one of Derek’s shirts because his is in pieces. Derek lets him out down the block like a dirty secret and Stiles doesn’t lean over the console to kiss him goodbye.

This is not the kind of thing where they kiss for non-sex reasons. 

He reminds himself of that twice before he’s out of the car. 

Of course, his dad is home. Because Stiles’ life _sucks_. And there’s no way he can climb up to his window, so he has to go through the front. Has to duck, walking fast, but his dad is in the kitchen and calls out when Stiles passes by the doorway. 

“Hey, where’d you go last night? Lydia dropped off your car, but I didn’t see you.”

Stiles is already halfway up the stairs, panicking a little, and shouts back, “ _I was at Scott_ ’s!” He gets to his room in record time, strips off Derek’s shirt and rushes to the dresser for one that’s actually _his_.

“Hey— Woah,” his dad says from the doorway and Stiles goes very still. “Uh, something you want to tell me?” Stiles yanks on a t-shirt, spinning, and offers him an innocent grin.

“What? Nope. Got nothing.”

His dad gives him a look that calls his bullshit more clearly than words could ever express. Stiles winces.

“Don’t worry about it?” he offers. 

“Son, is this why you’ve been so spacey lately? You know that you don’t have to hide anything from me. It’s totally fine with me if you have boyfriend.”

Shit, this is so awkward. “I thought I wasn't gay?”

“ _Stiles_ ,” his dad says, narrowing his eyes. “You have hickeys and beard burn all over your back. Are you trying to tell me a girl did that?”

“No?”

“It’s _fine_ , son.” His dad shrugs. “I just hope you’re being safe. And I would like to meet him. You don’t have to keep secrets from me, you know.”

 _Oh shit oh shit oh shit_.

“Why don’t you have him come over for dinner tomorrow night?”

“Uh, I don’t know if that’s—“

His dad holds up a hand. “I know I made it sound like it was a request, but it wasn’t. I want to meet him. And maybe get him a muzzle. _Jesus_.” Stiles chokes and he’s pretty sure he’s tomato red and that he also wants to die, like, a _lot_. 

“Oh my _God_ , Dad, please never say anything like that again. I’ll do anything.”

“Introduce us and we have a deal.” His dad gives him the sort of look he does sometimes, like he’s utterly confused about how Stiles came to be who he is. “Well, I’m gonna head out in a minute. You need anything? Aloe vera? Icy-Hot?”

Stiles shuts his eyes. “ _I swear to God_ — Please please please just go away so that I can _die in peace_.”

“Alright, then. I’ll see you later. And don’t forget dinner.”

When Stiles is sure he’s gone, he opens his eyes.

Welp, looks like he has a bit of a possible shit storm on his hands. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it starts off as hate sex and it's pretty rough at first, but consent is requested and given and re-affirmed  
> possibly triggery language during sex? it's different for everyone so just be aware that some intense things are said  
> heat-of-the-moment codependency like whoa  
> blink and you'll miss it reference to Kate  
> a little bit of violence (before the sex, way before)


	6. I was prepared to love you and never expect anything of you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHAHA SO I WASN'T GOING TO POST THIS TONIGHT BUT I COULDN'T SLEEP SOOOO  
> Title from "Weights and Measures" by Dry the River.
> 
> This is the chapter where I looked at the meta of Derek and Stiles needing to become, like, ascended individuals before having a relationship and I started cackling maniacally. 
> 
> READ THE WARNINGS IF THERE'S ANY SHADE OF DUBCON YOU DON'T LIKE.

What Stiles _does,_ because it's all he can think to do in the situation, is basic damage control: shower and de-Derek himself as thoroughly as he can. All of his clothes go in the laundry. Googles how to get rid of beard burn and hickeys, makes a Walgreens run, and rubs all of the moisturizing shit and toothpaste and makeup he can find all over him. 

It’s not until all of his visible skin is its normal color that he texts Scott:

**SOS crisis imminent chances of death v high come over pls**

That gets Scott over pretty damn fast. He doesn’t knock, obviously, just barges into Stiles’ room. He’s a little out of breath, actually, and looks around to suss out the threat.

“I thought you were getting murdered,” Scott says, relaxing. 

“Nah, dude, that would’ve been a _much_ shorter text. I _am_ , however, considering harakiri.”

Scott frowns, flopping into Stiles’ desk chair. “What’s up?”

“Well,” Stiles says with a wince, “I might have accidentally given my dad the impression that the reason I’ve been so obviously hiding shit from him is because I have a secret boyfriend. So I need a secret boyfriend.”

Scott scratches the back of his head. “Uh, well, I’m sure Isaac…”

“Nope. Isaac looks like a cherub. I need the kind of guy who might possibly one day have some form of facial hair.” Scott gives him a _really_ weird look. 

“You know a fake boyfriend doesn’t _actually_ have to be your type, right?”

“Yeah, no, totally, but I scraped my shoulder the other week and he thought it was beard burn, so I need someone who isn’t, like, pristine marble. And I need him tomorrow. For dinner,” Stiles explains.

“I know it’s not _ideal_ , but what about Derek?” Scott suggests and Stiles has a very hard time not acting super sketchy. “He’d do it, if you asked. And he’s, you know. _I_ don’t think he’s… _whatever_ , but you, uh. I’m pretty sure you do.” Stiles has to force himself to calm down and not overreact for a second before he’s able to shoot _that_ down.

“My dad arrested him once. I’m pretty sure he’d kill me if I brought Derek home.” _Also, Derek would kill him. Or maybe withhold sex as punishment. Which is possibly worse_. 

“So what are you gonna do, then?”

Stiles gives him the best puppy dog look he can manage. “Well, bro, I was thinking maybe _you_ could do it?”

Scott looks at him for a second, then shrugs. “Sure thing. What do you need me to do?”

“Just show up for dinner and look like we’re dating. It should be a breeze.”

“So you don’t need me tonight?” Scott asks, and Stiles shakes his head. “Good, because I have a date with Allison. Soon, actually. Hey, did we have plans for today?”

“Uh, I don’t _think_ so. I mean, I’ll never say no to bro time, but—“

“No, like pack stuff. I think you must’ve seen Derek last. Are we actually doing anything? I mean, other than looking the other way when Lydia totally kills Peter?”

Stiles shakes his head, staying calm. “Nah, I don’t think so. He didn’t say anything to me about it, at least.”

“Cool. Well. I’ll see you later? Text me when you need me to come over tomorrow.”

“Will do, buddy.”

When Scott leaves, Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. 

Crisis averted. 

And then his phone rings.

Derek.

“ _What are you doing right now?_ ” he asks before Stiles can so much as say hello.

“Uh, nothing. Why?”

“ _How fast can you get here?_ ”

Stiles smirks. “Dude, you’ll be okay, I promise. No one’s ever _actually_ died from blue—“

“ _Peter’s here and he just told me that there’s been another murdered virgin._ ”

Shit. 

Well. 

“Okay, hold tight, I’ll be there as fast as I can.” 

 

* * *

 

 

It only takes twenty-two minutes ( _fuck_ traffic) and Stiles is _somehow_ the last one there. 

Derek’s changed his sheets. It’s pretty much the first thing he sees because he can’t help but look. Good thing, too, because that would’ve been awkward.

And the windows are open. Hopefully no one’s wondering why.

Well, Cora doesn’t have to wonder. 

“We need a plan,” Scott says. Everyone’s around the table and Stiles moves in next to him. When he glances up, Derek’s eyes are drilling into him. In a bad way. Yeah, a pretty darn bad way. Jesus, he’s not _that_ late.

“I think it’s time to go on the offensive,” Peter says.

Isaac nods in agreement, saying, “The best defense is a good offense.”

“We don’t even know where these psychos _are_ ,” Stiles points out. “We just know that they like to kill virgins right after the full moon. That’s not much to go on.”

“But it _is_ enough to lay out a trap,” Peter says. “Isn’t it?”

“Too bad we can’t just use _you_ as bait,” Lydia snaps.

He shrugs, smirking in that creepy-annoying way he does. “But we _could_ use _someone_.”

“Who?” Stiles asks, frowning. 

And then he realizes that everyone’s looking at him. And no one’s saying anything. They’re just _looking_ at him. Well, except for Cora. She’s looking at the table. And Derek’s glaring at the air over his head.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

“We would be right there,” Peter says. “It’s very likely that no harm would come to you.”

Oh Jesus. This is bad. There’s no possible way he could just _pretend_. It wouldn’t take. He can’t draw them in if he’s not…

Stiles takes a deep breath, wincing, and says, “ _I can’t_.”

And he thought it was quiet _before_. 

Apparently, the news that he’s not a virgin is _shocking_. Like, _beyond_ shocking. That’s a little offensive, actually. Because screw everyone, he’s banging the hottest person at the table. And it’s _great_. Like, _damn_.

Not that he’s about to _say_ that.

“ _Dude_ ,” Scott says, elbowing him. “Why didn’t I know about this?”

Stiles laughs a little awkwardly. “Well, you know, there was a bunch of stuff going on and it wasn’t a good time, and then I sort of forgot about it, and can we not talk about this right now? We need a new plan. One that does _not_ involve me as a sacrifice?” 

 

* * *

 

 

Their bait, as it turns out, is Greenberg. And Stiles draws the short straw (it was rigged anyway because he probably knows Greenberg best) so _he_ ends up being the one who lures him into the woods. For “night practice”. Good God.

The whole thing makes him really uncomfortable, but Stiles has a gun under his jacket so he’s pretty sure no one’s going to get murdered on his watch. 

Only he’s wrong. He’s really wrong.

It’s just that _Greenberg_ isn’t going to get murdered. Because he, apparently, runs faster than Stiles. 

Must be all those suicide runs that Finstock makes him do.

When Stiles pulls out his gun and shoots at the hooded figures, it seems to piss them off because then they’re closing in on him. And they’re _menacing_. What is it with cloaks being so scary all of a sudden? Harry Potter wasn’t this freaky.

“Not a virgin, guys,” he says because he’s out of ammo. “I promise. The deed has been done. I have had genital contact with another person. I swear. And it’s been really good, so.” 

Yeah, they’re pissed. They don’t seem to care a whit that he’s been de-virginized. 

One of them grabs his hair and another wraps a rope around his neck and he doesn’t have time to scream. Just shuts his eyes, hoping it’ll be over quickly. It burns and he can’t help but claw at the rope, because he can’t breathe and it’s _way_ more terrifying than he ever thought.

But then there’s this _roar_ and he’s released. 

When Stiles opens his eyes, Derek’s ripping the shit out of them. Scott and the others get there just a second later, and by the time Stiles has stopped gasping for breath, all the cloak people are dead. Jesus. That’s…good? Is it?

Yeah. He’s alive. Everyone’s alive. So it’s pretty fucking good.

“Remember when we said that _no harm was going to come to me_?” Stiles rasps. “Because I seem to _distinctly_ remember those words being spoken.” 

Everyone’s panting, and Derek steps over a body to grab Stiles’ shoulder. His mouth is bloody, as are his hands when he lifts Stiles’ chin. It’s very quiet while Derek inspects him, and Stiles wants to tell him to lay off because, hey, if he’s talking, he’s probably fine, but the words aren’t coming. Derek’s other hand is wrapped around the back of his neck and it’s hot and wet. _Blood. Ew_. Stiles is probably going to have a bloodstain on the collar of his t-shirt. 

“Is he okay?” Scott asks. 

It’s been too long since Derek first touched him. They’re going to start to suspect. _Shit_. 

“I’m fine,” Stiles says because Derek’s too staring to answer. “Seriously, I’m _okay_.” This is mostly for Derek, who doesn’t pull his hands away until Stiles removes them himself. 

“Um, cool. I…We should go,” Scott says. “Now.”

“Yeah, bro, no problem—“

“I didn’t mean…” Scott mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean— Yeah. We should all go. Stiles, you came with Greenberg, right? I’m sure Derek will give you a ride. I would offer, but I’ve got Allison and Isaac and Boyd and Cora, and really, it’s just packed.” 

 _Scott_ , _you are the least smooth person in the entire history of human existence_ , Stiles wants to yell. 

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Isaac agrees, and Stiles is going to punch him in the face. Stiles is going to punch _all_ of them in the face because they’re all nodding, the little shits. 

Stiles sighs, looks at Derek. “Only if you don’t _mind_ ,” he says, eyes dropping to the ground. “Or I could go with Scott and you could take Cora, Boyd, and Isaac home.”

“Actually, I left some stuff over at Scott’s,” Isaac says. He visibly elbows the others.

“Yeah, me too,” Cora says after a second.

Boyd just gives Isaac a pissed off look and nods.

Wow.

Stiles is going to kill _all_ of them. 

“I’ll take you,” Derek says. He’s looking at his shoes like there’s something _fascinating_ on them. 

By the time they all make it to their cars, Stiles has a message from Isaac on his phone. 

 **We’re all meeting at Derek’s tomorrow morning so don’t stink the place up.**  

Yeah, they’re dead. They’re all dead. 

“I hate the pack,” Stiles says when Scott’s car is a little ways ahead of them. “They’re all horrible. Can we ditch them?”

Derek glances at him. “You want me to take you home?”

“Didn’t say that. Just saying that they’re awful. I can’t _believe_ Scott thought that was subtle. _Seriously_.” 

“He didn’t know, though,” Derek says. “Earlier. He didn’t know we’ve…”

“No, he has no idea,” Stiles assures him. “I think he’s smelled me around you, though. He said something earlier. I think he was trying to be a good friend and _set us up_.” He snorts at that, at the fact that Scott has no idea. It’s not like that, anyway. And really, Stiles isn’t _opposed_ to the idea. He’s…well, he’s not going to think about it. It’s better if he doesn’t.

Derek nods, maybe a few too many times. 

He’s probably really uncomfortable with the whole thing. Obviously, he could do better. And, hell, he probably doesn’t even _want_ a real relationship with anyone. Least of all Stiles.

“Are you sure you want to come over?” Derek asks. 

Stiles looks out the window, thinking about it. “I don’t know? I’m worried that if I do, he’ll know. It’s easier if he doesn’t. He’ll think it’s something it isn’t.” It’s a hard decision, weighing that against his libido, but when he thinks about his shower earlier…. “I think my ass needs a day to recover, anyway. Could you just drop me off at home?” 

“Yeah.” Derek’s hands twist a little on the steering wheel, and after a moment, he says, “If you want, we could always…I mean, I’m just saying, it doesn’t have to be exactly like that. Position-wise. Or…” His grip tightens and Stiles can practically _hear_ his molars grinding. “Nevermind. Forget it.”

“You’d let me top?” Stiles asks, a little bit breathless because he’s not _sure_ if that’s what Derek’s saying.

After a long, quiet moment, Derek nods. Just the once.

“Yeah. I mean, sure.” Stiles’s heart’s beating _way_ too loud. “If…are you _sure_? You’re, like, the _alpha_.”

Derek looks at him, piercing. “What does that have to do with anything? If you don’t want to, just _say_ you don’t—“

“ _I want to_.” 

Derek sits up a little, nods. “Alright. Do you want me to take you home still?”

“Yeah, it’s for the best. But I’ll take a rain check? I should diffuse the situation before it gets bad.”

Stiles pulls out his phone, stares at the blank message screen for a minute or two before sending: **I h8 u. U are the worst. That was the worst car ride of my whole life. So awkward. Never leave me alone with derek again. Did I mention u suck? Bc u do.**

A moment later, he follows it up:

**He told me I’m a good kid but he wasn’t interested. This is ur fault. I didn’t even say anything to him. He legit rejected me without prompting. So thx.**

After a minute, he gets a response:

**So sorry, bro. I swore he was finally going to make a move.**

Stiles is trying to figure _that_ one out when he gets a text from Isaac.

**Sorry derek’s an asswipe man. That cost me $20 so I hate him right now too :(**

Wait, _what_? Isaac _bet_ on them?

Before he can muster up the correct amount of righteous anger, he gets a text from Lydia.

**Boys are assholes, hun. Want to come over? I’ve got The Notebook. I’ll eat ice cream with you and tell you you’re still pretty when you cry?**

Oh Lord. 

“Okay,” Stiles says as they pull up to the curb at the end of his street. “I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

“Either.” 

Stiles grins. “So, good news: I apparently have a support system. Bad news: everyone hates you now.”

Derek frowns, gives him a heavy-browed look. “And _why_ does everyone hate me?”

“I told Scott you rejected me and he apparently told everyone. It looks there was a pool of some kind? I’m not sure, but I think you owe Isaac twenty bucks. And now I have to figure out a way to avoid the emotional trauma of The Notebook.” 

While Derek stares straight ahead, apparently in a mild form of shock, Stiles responds to all of the texts with appreciation and the reassurance that he’s okay, he just needs to be alone right now. What a joke.

“ _Bets_?” Derek asks like he’s straining to understand. 

“I guess so. I didn’t realize we were such a hot topic, you know?”

Derek snorts, shrugs, and looks at him. “Are you going, or are you staying?” he asks. Because Stiles hasn’t gotten out of the car. Shit. That’s awkward.

“Going, sorry. Catch you later.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says right before Stiles closes the door.

Stiles stops, leans back in. “What for, dude? It’s Scott’s fault.” Derek shakes his head. He doesn’t make eye contact.

“You weren’t supposed to get hurt. I thought they’d pass right over you.”

“It’s _fine_ ,” Stiles tells him.

Derek shakes his head. “It’s not. I should be able to guarantee you’re safe.”

“You can’t,” Stiles says. “No one can. For anyone. It sucks but that’s the way it goes. And I can take care of myself, anyway. Most of the time.”

“Liar,” Derek says, and Stiles shuts the door on him. Heads down the street with his hands shoved in his pockets. Fuck it, he’s pissed. He’s not going to pretend he isn’t. Because Stiles wants to say it’s almost like Derek cares about him, but it’s not _almost_ anything. What it _is_ is against their rules. Or at least against the rules Stiles has in his head. Because if Derek keeps on like this, Stiles is going to admit to something stupid. He’s not going to be able to pretend he doesn’t care anymore. 

(He’s basically _always_ cared. 

From the second Derek put an electric bone saw in his hands and trusted him to amputate, Stiles has cared. When Derek looked at him with mossy eyes and a cold sweat, scared and weak and trying to hold it together, and he _needed_ Stiles. Need is a dangerous thing for him. It’s _intoxicating_ , and from then on, he’s craved it.

It’s also the exact moment Stiles stopped being afraid of Derek.)

When he gets to his room, Scott’s there. Sitting on his bed. He takes one look at Stiles and pulls him into a tight bro-hug.

“I’m really sorry, dude.”

Stiles shrugs. “It’s fine. Nothing you can do.” He’s not sure why his throat feels tight, but it probably has something to do with the fact that he’s thinking about how he’s going inevitably ruin one of the best things he’s ever had. By caring too much. That’s just like him, isn’t it?

“What do you need?” Scott asks, a hand on his shoulder.

“Can I just get out of here for a while? Go to yours or something? I just need to get out of my head for a while. You know?”

Scott nods. “Yeah. I’ve been there. Don’t worry. We can play video games until our brains melt.”

And that’s what they do.

They play until it’s early, early morning, just like old times, like before. And they squeeze into Scott’s twin-sized bed and Stiles sleeps for longer than he’s slept in a long time.

 

* * *

 

 

When he wakes up, it’s to his phone ringing. His dad. Shit.

“Yeah?” he answers, rubbing his eyes. Fuck, it’s afternoon already.

“ _Where the hell are you? I haven’t seen you in over twenty-four hours, Stiles_.” 

“Sorry,” he says honestly. “I’m at Scott’s, okay? I’ll be home for dinner. I haven’t forgotten.”

“ _Good. And text me next time. I want to know where you are_.”

“I will, don’t worry. Okay?”

“ _Yeah. Fine. Don’t be late for dinner._ ” 

When Stiles hangs up, Scott flips over onto his back.

“Dad?”

“Yep. I forgot to tell him where I was going.”

Scott yawns wide. “When you tell him I’m your boyfriend, he’s probably going to be pissed that you were here.”

“Probably,” Stiles agrees. “But I can’t really do anything about that now.”

“True. You want first shower?” 

Stiles nods. “Yep. I’ll be quick.”

“I know. Don’t expect me to be awake when you’re done.”

“I would never.”

He does shower quick, in just a couple of minutes, and he’s tired, so he crawls back into bed. His hair isn’t _that_ wet, but Scott groans, rolls over. 

“I guess it’s my turn,” he says with a heavy sigh.” Stiles nods, stealing Scott’s blankets. He could probably sleep for a few hours. Scott takes slow showers anyway. 

But when Scott’s in the bathroom, Stiles feels wide awake. He lays there, listening to Scott turning on the water, and just breathes for a minute. It feels like the end of a long, long week. 

They have an agreement, him and Scott, since they were thirteen and fessed up to their first boners. Namely, that sometimes, erections happen, especially in places they don’t want them to. If something needs to be done, they go to the bathroom to take care of it. Or, if a bro is in the bathroom and it can’t wait, be quick and clean up after yourself. 

Stiles hasn’t acted on their little agreement since the whole werewolf thing because every time they’re been with each other for any length of time, there’s been some sort of supernatural crisis. 

And now there’s not. 

Well, unless you consider Stiles’ sex life to be a supernatural crisis.

(It might be. A little bit.)

Scott’s showers average at twenty minutes, Stiles knows. 

Stiles’ average get-r-done jerk lasts about six minutes from full chub. 

That gives him plenty of time to get rid of any evidence and maybe even open the window. 

It turns out he lasts about _three_ minutes, imagining the promise of the majesty of Derek’s ass. His wondrous, wondrous ass. One of these days, Stiles is going to learn guitar so he can play Derek “Your Body is a Wonderland”.

Stiles knows he’s sick, okay. He knows it’s a bad situation. He knows he’s fucked in a bad way. 

Funny, he never thought he’d be the kind of person who fell for the person he lost it to. 

Not that he’s technically _fallen_. Not really. He’s not _in love_ with Derek. No. Lord no. He just has some feelings. Little ones. About cuddling. And Derek’s post-bone face. And some of the things he does. Not just the sex things. 

It’s unfortunate is what it is. But it’s not quite a tragedy. Not until he cries about it.

He’s _never_ going to cry about it. 

What he _is_ going to do is toss his jizz-tissue into Scott’s trash and hope it’s not the only one there for scent reasons, and then he’s going to work on getting Scott’s window open. There’s a chance that he Stiles-proofed it. Which sucks a little. 

Yeah, that thing’s not gonna budge.

When Scott comes in, wearing a towel around his hips, he gives Stiles a look. 

“ _Dude_.”

Stiles just rolls his eyes because it’s not like Scott doesn’t know that he jerks it an average of, like, three times a day. He’s just being an ass because his werewolf powers let him. He doesn’t mean it anyway. 

While Scott gets dressed, Stiles lays on his bed, tossing a lacrosse ball in the air. “So, your dad’s really going to believe that we’re dating?” Scott asks, tugging on a fresh t-shirt. 

“I think so,” Stiles says. “I mean, we spend a bit of time together, especially since every time we have werewolf stuff, I tell him I’m here. He’s probably wondered about it, at some point in his life. I think he’ll believe it.” 

“Alright, then. You’d know better than me,” Scott says. “Wanna embarrass yourself at Super Smash Bros?”

Stiles grins. “Oh, it’s _on_.”

 

* * *

 

By the time his dad texts him to be home in the next half hour, Stiles has gotten himself kind of nervous. 

Well, he’s a teeny bit terrified. 

Because the plan _has_ to work. If it doesn’t, if one little part of it fails, he’s in a really bad situation. His dad needs to believe it’s Scott and not suspect that it could be Derek and Scott needs to believe that it’s all a cover for werewolf business and not suspect that _it’s totally Derek_. 

So he’s freaking out a little.

Scott squeezes his shoulder, though, and offers him the kind of smile that lays a cozy blanket over all of his fears. “It’s going to be _fine_ ,” he says. “I’ll be the best fake boyfriend you ever have.”

“Hopefully the _only_ fake boyfriend I ever have. I might like to have a _real_ one some day.”

“Baby steps,” Scott teases.

A moment later, Stiles gets a text from Derek: **Busy?**

Stiles glances at Scott before replying.

**Not until tonight. Important stuff right now.**

 

* * *

 

 

When Stiles walks through his door, he hears his dad in the kitchen. 

“And here I was, thinking you weren’t gonna show,” his dad says, coming into the living room as he wipes his hands on a dish towel. He looks at Scott, then gives Stiles a stern frown. “You could’ve told me to set the table for four.”

“No, uh,” Stiles says, glancing behind him as Scott takes his hand. “Just the three of us.”

His dad looks at him for a long, long time. 

“We had an _understanding_ ,” his dad says. “I wanted to meet your boyfriend. I _cooked_.”

“No, Dad, this…Scott’s my boyfriend. I’m dating Scott.”

Scott’s smiling, a little awkward, and Stiles wonders if this is how he smiled for Allison’s parents that first time.

The three of them just _stand_ there until the timer in the kitchen beeps. 

“Well, go sit down, I guess,” his dad says. “I’m just going to get the rolls. Sorry, I just…” He peeks out of the kitchen. “ _Really_?” Scott touches Stiles’ back, nods.

“I’m sorry, sir. We just felt weird about telling you. Because you and my mom?” Stiles frowns and _oh_. Shit. That’s weird, if that’s a real thing that’s going on. Cool, but weird. He and Scott could maybe totally be brothers! Awesome…well, not if they’re fake-dating? Shit, this is _weird_.

“Wait, has Melissa said anything about me?” his dad asks and _oh God_. His dad has _no_ game, apparently. 

Scott ducks his head, smiling a little. “Well, she’s been trying really hard not to, but she’s singing in the shower again, so…” 

Stiles looks at him, configuring his eyebrows into a series of shapes to convey _Dude, why didn’t you tell me that our parents like each other?_ Scott has the decency to look a little sheepish. 

“Oh. That’s…well, I mean, that’s…oh, _nevermind_ ,” his dad says, and he’s _flustered_. His dad, Sheriff and hard-ass extraordinaire, is _flustered_. And _flushed_. What the hell? What episode of the Twilight Zone did Stiles walk into? 

It’s _super_ awkward when they all sit down. 

The three of them have eaten together before, probably at least a hundred times, but it’s _never_ been this weird. Ever. It’s the most awkward thing ever and _he and Scott aren’t even dating_. That level of awkward has not even been _reached_ and Stiles wants to stab himself in the face with his fork. Because _no one’s talking_. They’re just eating, trying not to look at each other, and _why_? 

“So, uh, Scott. I have to say, I was a little afraid you’d be some old, leather-jacket wearing biker-type with tattoos and an arrest record.”

Stiles chokes because he got four out of five, really, but Scott shrugs, says, “Well, actually, I _do_ have a tattoo and a motorbike. But no leather jacket. Not really my thing.” Haha, yeah, Stiles is going to stab himself in the face. It’s happening. “You’d know better than me about the arrest record, but I think it’s just that restraining order from April.”

This is actually the worst.

 _No wonder_ Scott had trouble with the Argents. Rule number one of meeting the parents is to _not_ admit to the tattoo. Or the bike. Or the restraining order.

Granted, he had none of these things before Allison, so maybe Stiles is just panicking and trying to place the blame for the fact that he wants to _die_ somewhere. It’s really not Scott’s fault at all. And it’s not like his dad doesn’t _know_ that Scott’s a decent guy.

“Good,” his dad says, chewing. “Because I thought I was going to have to file a restraining order when I saw those hickeys all over Stiles’ back.”

Oh _fuck_.

“Hickeys?” Scott asks, eyes wide, and he _totally_ looks at Stiles. Shit. _And_ his dad totally saw. 

 _Fuck fuck fuck_.

“Um, _yeah_ ,” his dad says. “I thought he got _mauled_ for a second there.” Holy God, his dad knows it wasn’t Scott. Stiles is so dead. He’s so so so dead.

“See, funny story,” Stiles starts, but he has no idea how he’s going to finish that sentence.

“ _Hickeys_? I thought you said it was just a _scrape_ ,” Scott hisses.

Stiles’ dad looks between the two of them. “So I take it Scott’s not the vampire I should be after. Care to explain, Stiles?”

The look on Scott’s face is totally betrayed, and it _hurts_. The way Stiles sighs isn’t fake, not a bit, but his brain is spinning trying to come up with something he can use to pull them out of this.

“Look, I— this in not…I cheated, okay? Just once.”

Stiles is looking down at the table, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees Scott’s jaw clenching and his dad’s frown deepening.

“ _Seriously_?” His dad looks _totally_ unimpressed, and he’s totally going to say something awful, like _I thought I raised you better_. 

But he doesn’t. 

What he says is, “Do you honestly expect me to believe that you would _ever_ cheat on Scott? _Scott_?”

Stiles meets his eyes, stomach going icy. 

“After how long you’ve known each other? You’ve been friends for _years_ , and you’re trying to tell me you would _cheat_ on him? How stupid do you think I am, Stiles?” He smacks his hand down on the table and Stiles jumps. “Why couldn’t you just do what I _asked_? I just wanted to _meet_ him, Stiles. I just wanted to know who was a part of your life. But you couldn’t even trust me with _that_ , could you?”

Stiles looks down, and he’s about three second away from crying. The lump in his throat is dry and sharp and he can’t swallow.

“Does _Scott_ even know who he is? Do you trust _him_ at least?”

A single glance at Scott tells him everything: Scott _knows_. He knows exactly who it was. 

“So he does.” Shit, _why_ does his dad have to be freaking _law enforcement_? “Scott, will _you_ tell me who it is? I wouldn’t ask, but I can’t believe a _word_ that comes out of his mouth.”

“Yeah,” Scott says. “He’s…” Scott sighs, sharp. “His name is Danny. He has a boyfriend.” Scott turns to Stiles, who’s trying to not _freak out_ because Scott is literally saving his life right now. “You _promised_ you wouldn’tafter they got back together. You said you would stay away and respect Danny’s choice.”

Holy shit, Stiles could kiss him right now. He really could. 

Or just cry all over him for saving Stiles’ life.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles tells him, his voice cracking in his throat, thank God. “I couldn’t help it. I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how.”

“ _Christ_ ,” his dad groans. “I’m too old for this shit.”

Stiles twists his hands in his lap, feeling like he’s spinning in every direction.

“You’re excused, Stiles. Go to your room. We’ll talk when I get my hands on a polygraph.”

 _That_ stings, but Stiles gets up, _runs_ to his room. Scott’s just behind him, and he closes the door too gently behind him. The look he gives Stiles stabs him deep, twists in. Right between his ribs. 

Stiles feels like falling over, maybe, or like setting himself on fire. _This_ is the worst feeling he’s ever had.

Desperately, he wonders when he started thinking it was okay to lie to his best friend. 

“I don’t deserve you,” Stiles chokes out. “I really don’t.”

Scott shrugs, but his jaw is tight. “I _hope_ you’d do the same for me.”

“I would,” Stiles tells him, nodding. He wipes his face when a hot, angry tear slips out. “I really would. I’d do anything. I’m sorry. I never meant for _any_ of this.”

“I just… _Why_? Why couldn’t you just _tell_ me? I’m…Stiles, I’m your _bro_. I just don’t get why you felt you couldn’t tell me,” Scott says. The look on his face is more sad than angry and Stiles wants to _die_. He’s the worst friend in the universe to make Scott feel like that. He’s absolutely the shittiest friend.

Stiles sits on his bed, heaves a wet sigh. “I’m sorry. It all just sort of happened, and I didn’t want you to hate me for it. You’ve _never_ liked him. I didn’t want you to think I’d picked him over you.”

“Have you?”

“ _What_?” Stiles gapes at him for half a second. “Are you _serious_? You think I would do that to you? _You_?”

“I have no idea, to be honest,” Scott says. “You didn’t use to keep secrets from me. Used to be, you would’ve told me if you _kissed_ anyone, let alone _lost your virginity_. I don’t even know how long it’s been going on. I have absolutely _no idea_ how long you’ve been lying to me.”

Stiles shakes his head. “Not that long, okay? Just a couple weeks. It…it’s complicated and it was really stupid and I didn’t want you to be disappointed in me. I shouldn’t have been screwing around with him, him of all people.”

“Dude, my problem isn’t that it’s _Derek_ ,” Scott says. “I mean, I wasn’t the first one to notice, but I know you two have this _thing_. Like a weird connection thing. I don’t care about that, okay? I care that you thought I would _judge you_ for who you liked. Stiles…I’m in love with a girl whose family tried to _kill_ me. I know you don’t get to just _choose_ who you love.”

“It’s not like that,” Stiles insists. “We’re not…I don’t _love_ him. It’s not about that.”

Scott gives him a look. “I can _hear you heartbeat_.”

No.

No, see, that’s the thing — Stiles _doesn’t_. 

He. Does. Not. Love. Derek. 

Not a chance. Because then this would be _so much_ worse than it is.

The bed shifts as Scott sits down next to him. His hand is warm when it settles around Stiles’ shoulders, and Stiles leans into it, feeling very, very numb. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Scott asks, because he’s the best. He should be ditching Stiles, cutting him off entirely, and yet here he is. Being the friend Stiles wishes he was. 

“It’s a sex thing,” Stiles tells him. “We were just trying to relieve some tension.”

“Uh, over the past couple weeks? Because I can promise you that there’s been, like, at least five times as much tension lately. I mean, you guys generally have this _want to bone_ thing going on, but lately, it’s been more like _need to bone even though there’s innocent bystanders all around_. There’s been a couple close calls, let me tell you.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes, elbowing him. “Shut up. It’s not _that_ bad.”

“You don’t have my nose, bro. _Trust me_.” Stiles _tries_ not to smile at that, but it makes him a little smug. “I just don’t get why you’re saying it’s a sex thing. Like, I _know_ you. And I pretty much know _him_. I don’t believe it for a second.”

“I…” Stiles sighs. “I might. Have feelings. But it’s not like that. He and I agreed it wouldn’t be.”

“That’s stupid,” Scott tells him. “Not just because you’re smart enough to know that you fall hard for people. It’s…I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you. You’re the only one who’s ever been able to make him listen to you. And I swear, last night? I’ve _never_ seen him so freaked as when he thought they’d killed you.”

Stiles’ heart is beating too fast and too hard. 

Not in a good way. 

In a _possible panic attack_ way. 

Because he can’t handle this. Scott may think he’s helping, but _hope_? That’s only going to hurt him. It’s only going to rip him apart. No, Derek doesn’t like him. He tolerates Stiles. He’s attracted to him, likes to fuck him. But never for a second has he ever actually _liked_ him. 

“You don’t know him like I do,” Stiles says. 

His organs have shrunk to little raisins. His veins are dry.

“Are you _sure_?” Scott asks. “Because I’m _pretty darn sure_. And I think you should maybe talk to him about it. Like, if you need to, I’ll cover for you. With your dad.” 

When Stiles looks at him, all he sees is real, earnest belief. This is Scott. Scott, who will forgive him for the worst he’s done. Scott, who’s never actually wished anything bad on anyone in their life. Scott, who would never send him off to dash his heart against the rocks. 

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Yeah, okay. Will you?”

“Yeah. You’d do the same for me, dude,” Scott says, and Stiles just hug-tackles him. 

Somewhere, someone has a really shitty life, the worst of all lives, because Stiles has the best luck in the world to have a friend like him.

“Alright,” Scott says when they break apart. “You hop out the window, I’ll tell your dad you’re sleeping and grab your keys. We good?”

“We’re good.” 

Outside, a few scrapes later, when Stiles sees Scott, he can’t hold back a grin. His keys dangle in Scott’s fingers. 

In the car, he says, “He totally bought it, don’t worry.”

After Stiles drops him off at his house, he wishes him good luck. Yeah, Stiles is gonna need it.

 

* * *

 

Derek’s door is unlocked, so he just lets himself in. It’s not like they have normal boundaries anyway. It’s not like Derek hasn’t totally appeared without warning in his room before.

(It’s been months since he last did that, but that’s not the point.)

“Oh, yeah, Stiles, just come on in. It’s not like there’s a social convention to ask people’s permission before you enter their home,” Derek says. “Oh wait: there _is_.” 

Stiles expects that his sarcasm means that Peter’s here, or someone else, but the thing is, Derek’s half-naked and there’s no one around. No, it’s just Derek. And he’s being an asshole tonight. Apparently. Not like he isn’t most of the time. 

“Wow. Sorry to intrude on you doing absolutely _nothing_. Or, what, you’re just sitting here _brooding_? Yeah, I know you to meet a daily quota of frowny faces. Don’t want to get in the way of _that_.”

Derek gets up, crosses the floor to him but doesn’t touch him. He stands there, nostrils flaring. It’s when his eyes flash red that Stiles takes a step back.

“Okay, creeper, glad to see you’ve been making progress towards normal social interactions.”

Derek snorts, almost like a bull in a ring. “Fuck you,” he bites, pulling away.

“Jesus Christ, is it _asshole day_? Did I miss the memo?” Stiles asks. “Because if I remember correctly, _you_ were the one who wanted me to come over.”

“I thought you had something _important_ to do,” Derek says, not meeting his eyes. “I didn’t realize that what you _meant_ was that you had to roll around in bed with Scott.”

Stiles’ eyes narrow. “ _What_?”

“I shouldn’t be _surprised_ that you’re fucking him, I guess.”

“What the _fuck_?” Stiles ask, _completely_ confused. And wow, _fuck you, Derek_. 

Derek turns on him, eyes hard. “Does he fuck you better than I can? Does he tell you he loves you more than his _girlfriend_?” He looks like he’s about two second from throwing something. 

“Dude, I seriously have _no idea_ what you’re talking about.”

“You _smell_ like him,” Derek accuses. “Like sweat and Scott and come. I shouldn’t be surprised that you need his dick so bad. You’re so fucking _greedy_ for it.”

Oh, he did _not_ just—

“Fuck you, Derek,” he says. “Yeah, fuck you. What does it matter, anyway? It’s not like we’re _dating_. It’s not like you’re the only one who gets to fuck me. Hate to break it to you, but you don’t _get_ to be pissed at me.”

“Then why the _fuck_ are you even here?” Derek asks through his teeth. 

“Maybe I felt bad for you, huh? Think of that? Maybe I wanted to come over and fuck you because it’s not like you have _friends_. It’s not like people come over to _hang out_ with you. It’s not like you have _anyone_ but your crazy-train psycho-killer uncle. _Maybe_ I just thought you needed a _pity-fuck_.”

Derek shuts down, all his anger gone. He’s wearing a pair of sweat pants and that’s it, and he slips them off, steps over to Stiles. His eyes are down, not really looking at anything, and it’s like he’s not even _there_. He stands in front of Stiles like he’s waiting for instructions or a blow, like he’d take anything Stiles gave to him. Like he’s just completely _given up_.

Fuck.

What the fuck did Stiles do?

How the _hell_ did it turn into this? All he did was _walk in the door_ , and now they’re standing here. Derek, like he’s broken, and Stiles, like he’s the worst person in the world. Because he just might be. 

Because Stiles knows how to lie without someone like Derek being able to tell.

He knows that if he edges away from absolutes, if he can phrase things as hypotheticals, his body won’t think he’s trying to lie. The anxious spike to his heartbeat won’t come. 

It wasn’t meant for this.

He’d tried it out so that, if asked, he could deny jerking off to Derek. _Months_ ago.

But Derek had hurt him, so he’d lashed out, and now Stiles is trying to figure out how the confession spinning in his head had turned into _this_. How he’d said _almost_ the worst he could possibly say.

Derek stands in front of him like he’ll do anything Stiles wants because he’s given up having a stake in himself, and it’s too much. Stiles touches his shoulder, light, and Derek twitches but doesn’t move away. Like he isn’t giving himself permission to. Like this is a punishment for something. 

Well, fuck that. Stiles isn’t going to be that for him. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Derek nods once like he absolutely doesn’t believe him.

He probably wouldn’t believe anything Stiles could think of to say to him. So maybe words aren’t the thing here. Maybe it’s actions. Maybe he can convince Derek he’s sorry, that he loves him, by _doing_. 

Derek follows him to the bed like he’s on a leash. 

He sits when Stiles touches his shoulder, lays down when he gives a little nudge. He’s totally soft, which is weird. It’s possible Stiles has never seen him completely soft. He can’t remember if he’d been the other morning.

Derek’s eyes shut when Stiles gets onto the bed. All of his clothes are still on and it feels _weird_ , but he’s not going to think about it. It’s not about sex. 

It feels weird to think it, but weird in a right sort of way. 

Because it’s not. It never was. It was about _need_ , maybe, and part of that need is sexual, sure. But that’s not all it is. Everyone Stiles knows is attractive, but he’s not _drawn_ to them the way he’s drawn to Derek. He doesn’t want to read them like a book or crawl inside of them or find a way to make them live forever. Not the same way. 

Stiles kisses him.

Soft.

Like the first kiss they probably _should_ have had. A press of lips to lips, breath to breath. With one hand, he combs through the hair at the side of Derek’s head. Nudges against his mouth. 

When Derek opens, it’s _obedient_ , and Stiles hates it. Because of _why_. Obedience because of _trust_ is one thing, but this is apathy. This is Derek not caring what happens to him and going along with it anyway. 

“What do you want?” Stiles asks, begs.

Derek doesn’t answer. Like he doesn’t get that Stiles means _him_. Like he doesn’t get why he’d be asked that.

“I’m not going to do it like this. I can’t, alright? I need you to tell me what you want and I’ll do that, but I can’t just do _this_. I feel like I’m taking advantage of you. Like I’m _using_ you. You’re not a tool, Derek, you’re a _person_. So tell me what you _want_.”

Derek opens his eyes, and in a move too quick to track, he flips them, settles himself over Stiles. His knees press in tight against Stiles’ sides, hands on either side of his head, and before Stiles can get a good look at his face, he drops in and takes Stiles’ mouth in a bruising kiss.

Their teeth scrape together, painful and wrong, and Stiles just can’t. He can’t do this. It’s ugly.

He yanks at Derek’s hair, gets him to pull back, and there’s blood in Derek’s mouth. It’s not Stiles’, and that just makes him mad. 

“ _Stop this_ ,” Stiles tells him. “I don’t want to watch you hurt yourself.” 

He searches Derek’s eyes, unable to read whatever’s there. They’re blank. That’s the problem. 

“I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t mean it. I— Nothing happened with Scott, okay? He’s like a _brother_ to me. It would be _gross_. I was just mad because you hurt me, but I didn’t mean it. I’ve never pitied you. Not _once_.”

Derek’s head tips down and he presses his face to Stiles’ neck, just breathes. His weight holds him in, but it’s good. It feels like he’s needed. 

“Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

There’s no response at first, then, “I want to see what you’ll do with me if I let you.”

Stiles goes very still.

What he’s asking for is proof. Proof that if he gives Stiles his trust, it won’t break him. That Stiles won’t hurt him even if he has the opportunity. Has _permission_. Which means that it’s an opportunity to do something good.

“Are you sure?” Stiles asks because he _has_ to know. Has to be clear on this point.

“ _Yes_.”

That’s all he needs.

“Let me up,” Stiles tells him and Derek does. He sits on the edge of the bed and he waits. Patiently. 

Stiles grabs both pillows, stacks them in the middle of the bed. Then decides that he’s going to get warm, so he kicks off his jeans, throws his shirt over his shoulder, and Derek’s just waiting. He doesn’t look up, even when Stiles stands in front of him, not until Stiles tilts his chin up for a kiss. 

He keeps it slow, but wet and open, tasting a hint of metal. He tastes like electricity, really, like something powerful and dangerous and beautiful. 

Derek’s response is even, exactly matching him.

No more, no less. His hands stay on his knees, but when Stiles guides him, he allows himself to be moved. To bare his throat and spread his thighs to accommodate Stiles’ body between them. To be leaned back until he’s flat against the bed. 

His throat is sensitive, Stiles knows that, and he sucks and licks and rubs his mouth raw. A light pinch of a nipple draws a breath from him, the swirl of his tongue, another. When Stiles reaches down, he can feel that Derek’s growing hard. It’s enough encouragement that he sinks to his knees. Without prompting, Derek spreads a little more. 

His skin burns under Stiles’ hands. Beneath them, the muscles of Derek’s inner thighs tense, jump at the press of his mouth. Just little kisses, edging in towards his cock, but slow. Letting him wait for it, yearn for it. His skin tastes a little like soap and lot like _Derek_ , that particular hot-blood taste. 

By the time Stiles’s nose is nudging against his balls, Derek’s hands are clenched tight on his knees and his dick is laying hard against his belly. 

At the first lick, air whistles out of his mouth. 

Stiles kisses the vein lancing up the underside of his cock, presses his lips to it to feel a pulse. It’s fast, the way it thuds against his tongue. Very, very lightly, Stiles runs his teeth up the length of Derek’s cock, satisfied at the whine he makes.

“I should warn you,” Stiles tells him, “that I’m going to try to make you come with only my mouth.” 

Derek doesn’t seem to react to that, but his eyes open when Stiles stands. 

“I’m going to need you up on the bed,” he says. 

It’s almost immediate, his movement, but Stiles has to guide him how he wants him. On his knees, in front of the pillows. Stiles slips in behind him, kisses his neck while he rubs a peaked nipple. Derek breathes through his mouth, deep, calm breaths. Almost like meditation. 

There’s no resistance when Stiles bends him over so his ass is in the air, hips supported by the pillows. 

When Stiles lays a palm on each of his flanks, he can feel Derek tremble.

“Is this okay with you? Can I do this?”

The _yes_ he lets out is rough, like its been kicked around some, but Derek nods, too. 

“Thank you,” Stiles tells him, sweeping his thumbs in soothing arcs. 

He starts at Derek’s back, kisses the notches of his spine, tongues the dimples above his ass, presses his mouth against each cheek before he pulls Derek open. 

His hole looks so _unsuspecting_ , and Stiles wants to taste him. Wants it bad. Wants to see what it’ll do to him. 

He doesn’t lick at first, just _breathes_ over him. Hot and wet. A shiver runs through Derek’s body. Stiles presses a kiss to the little pucker, feeling it tremble beneath his lips. He pulls back, spreads Derek a little more, glances up to see the sheen of sweat across his back.

When he first slicks his tongue against Derek’s hole, he jerks away with a little noise. Stiles rubs a soothing hand over his side and tries again, laps at him in little licks until Derek’s _shaking_. It’s fucking beautiful, feeling him losing it, but Stiles pulls away because he has to see. Has to see him, wet and pink and fucking _begging_ for something more. 

Stiles drags his teeth over him, dick twitching in his briefs at Derek’s whine. He tastes like soap, and that means he’s prepared for this, at least a little, that he’d planned on Stiles getting familiar with his ass. Fuck, yeah, that’s hot, alright. And he _likes_ it. When Stiles licks him again, he presses so gently, right at the center of him, and there’s just a little give. Just enough that Stiles can wiggle just the tip of his tongue in, twist against his rim. 

Derek _keens_ , and then his hand is right there, reaching back to hold himself open. His fingers are digging into his flesh so hard there’s pale dimples around each of his fingertips. Stiles touches his hand, rubs his thumb over the back of it, and turns his attention back to his hole.

When he _sucks_ at it, he hears a muffled, “ _Oh fuck please fuck don’t fucking stop_.” It’s like music, and like he’s conducting, Derek cuts off neatly the second he manages to push his tongue all the way inside. The way he trembles, so sweet and tight around Stiles’ tongue, he’s a second away from rutting against the mattress. It’s secondary, though. What he needs more is for Derek to fall apart so Stiles can show him that he wants to put him back together.

Stiles pulls back to spit on him so he can get inside easier. It’s slicker, lets his tongue twist and curl and drag moans out of Derek. When he _thrusts_ , Derek makes this noise like a sob, so Stiles does it again and again and again. 

Derek shakes, muscles coiling tighter, and he’s pressing against Stiles’ face like he needs it, drawing away like he’s ashamed. It’s a little bit of an effort, so Stiles draws out to lap and suck at Derek’s rim. Holds him open with his thumbs to kiss dirtily inside. 

And when Derek _begs_ , there aren’t any words to it, just this raspy whine. 

It’s a pretty noise, so Stiles slips his tongue all the way in, fucks him with it, hard and fast and driving like he wants to fly over the edge. Derek rocks back against him, chasing every inch of him, and the only warning Stiles gets is this rough half-howl that sounds like it hurts. Then he’s clenching around Stiles’ tongue and his spine caves. 

Stiles just licks him through it, drawing out slowly, in circles. It’s not until he’s pressing a last kiss to that pink, twitching hole that he hears Derek whimpering. Real soft, like he can’t help it but he’s trying to hide it. 

“ _Shhh_ ,” Stiles says, kissing up his spine. That quiets him. 

Stiles’ mouth is a little numb, but it’s like he’s addicted to Derek’s skin. He settles next to him, rubs his back in little circles. Just watches him with a lazy smile because _he did that_. He made Derek come on his _tongue_. That’s _fucking awesome_. 

All of his hours spent watching porn have paid off.

After a while, Derek turns his head, looks at him. “Aren’t you going to fuck me?” Stiles’ eyes widen. 

“Uh, well, I hadn’t— I mean, I don’t _not_ want to, but I’m kind of…good, I guess? I hadn’t really thought past getting you off, to be honest.” Derek frowns, and it’s thoughtful at first, and then it turns kind of pissed off, actually.

“Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t pretend that’s not what you’re here for. I promised you, didn’t I? And that’s why you’re here.” Before Stiles can even _think_ of what to say to that, Derek’s over him, pushing down his underwear, there’s a hand on his dick, and suddenly _that’s not a hand_. 

“What the—“ 

It gets cut off when Derek lifts up and slams down, too hard against his hips and it’s _all_ too hard, really. Derek’s so tight it almost hurts, and Stiles’ dick is definitely longer than his tongue. It’s completely overwhelming and Derek’s bouncing on his lap, and _fuck_ , yeah, that’s too rough. That’s not the good kind of friction.

“Derek, what—“ 

The words die in his throat when he sees the way Derek’s biting his lip.

“Stop,” he says, maybe begging. “Derek, _stop_. Please, _don’t_.“ 

He scrabbles at Derek’s thigh, digs his nails in so that he takes notice. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Derek pants, and his voice sounds like it’s scraping on the way out. 

Stiles shakes his head desperately. “ _No_ , it’s not, it’s really not.” When Derek slows to a roll, grimacing, Stiles grabs at his hip, saying, “Please, Derek, this isn’t fair. Don’t do this. I don’t want to hurt you. Don’t make me hurt you.”

“It always _hurts_ , Stiles. What the _fuck_ did you think this was doing to me?”

 _What_.

_What the fuck is he talking about?_

_What has Stiles done_?

By the time he’s able to _think_ enough to ask, Derek’s not on top of him anymore. He’s turning the corner into the bathroom and Stiles is up on his feet chasing after him.

Only to be met with a closed door.

“Derek?” he calls, resting his forehead against the door. “We need to talk. I’m not really sure— _We need to talk about this_.”

There’s no answer. 

Stiles touches the door, strokes the wood like that’ll soothe Derek on the other side. 

“ _Please_ , Derek. I won’t touch you, just let me in.”

He’s…

He feels like an abuser. Like the worst sort of human being. And he’s not even sure _how_. He would never, _ever_ , in five gazillion years hurt Derek on purpose.

Well, he said that shit today, and the other day, they’d been kind of rough, but…

Fuck, what did he _do_?

“I’m sorry. For everything. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I won’t do it again, but I need you to tell me _how_.”

And Derek’s not gonna fucking let him in. Shit. This is all fucked. He’s just totally fucked it all up.

On a whim, he tries the doorknob.

It’s unlocked. Of fucking _course_ it’s unlocked.

Should he go in? Is that bad? If Derek left it unlocked, is it okay?

Fuck it, it’s not like he can fuck up _more_.

Derek’s sitting in the corner made by the wall and the side of the bathtub. His knees are pulled to his chest. Somehow he’s drawn himself in so _small_.

And he’s just _staring._ Right ahead. Blankly.

Stiles approaches very, very slowly. A few feet away, he sinks down, scootches until there’s some space between them but he’s leaning against the same wall, legs out in front of him. 

Derek doesn’t move. 

So Stiles doesn’t do anything. Doesn’t say anything. He waits. Stares ahead. And waits for Derek to break the silence when he’s ready.

When Stiles’ butt starts going numb, he figures the whole _silent waiting_ thing isn’t really working.

“I’m sorry,” he offers, looking at Derek out of the corner of his eye. 

“You don’t have anything to be sorry _for_.” 

Stiles almost jumps, he’s so startled. 

“But you said I hurt you. I didn’t mean to do that. I wouldn’t have, if I’d known what I was doing. I know that doesn’t make it _okay_ , but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Derek shakes his head slowly. “You didn’t. _Do_. Anything. It was my fault. I made a mistake. I should’ve told you in the first place that I can’t— I’m not _built_ for this. I don’t know how.”

“Derek,” Stiles says, trying to keep his voice even and gentle, “I don’t know what that means.”

There’s a very quiet sigh beside him and Derek pulls his legs in closer to his chest. His jaw works, clenching and unclenching. Stiles can feel him winding tighter and tighter. It’s terrifying because he has _no idea_ what’s going on. 

“Why the _fuck_ are you even _here_?” Derek snaps, making Stiles jump. “I’ve tried so _hard_. I don’t go to your house so you can feel safe there. I don’t touch you in front of other people. I’ve given you _plenty_ of reasons. I just don’t understand. No one’s made you come here, but you’re _here_ and I don’t understand why.” 

Stiles inhales sharply. “You don’t want me coming over. Okay. Sorry. I can do that, I can go—“ He starts getting up, but Derek’s hand flashes out and grabs his shoulder.

“I don’t want you to go. I want you here.” Derek pulls away, scrubs his face with his hands. “That’s the _problem_.”

“ _What_?”

Stiles goes cold and hot all over, and he’s shaking, he _knows_ he shaking, and he’s not sure what’s really going on. If Derek’s saying what he _thinks_ he’s saying, and he can’t, he just can’t—

“I _told_ you it was my fault,” Derek says. “But I can’t do it. Every time you’re here, I feel like I’m being torn apart, but I can’t _stop_. I tried to make it easy for you to leave, but I’m terrified that you will. And I _need_ you to go. Because you’re not _safe_ with me, Stiles. As long as I love you, you’ll never be safe with me.”

Stiles digests that. It takes a moment. Because he’s catching on the _I love you_ , but the general tone is…well, it’s not good. And he’s confused about pretty much everything and it feels like he’s caught up in contradictions.

“I came here to tell you that I have feelings for you,” he says, mouth forming words strangely. “I…Scott knows. My dad, well, he knows _something_. He saw the marks on my back and he knew there was _someone_ , so I told him it was Scott. I…he didn’t believe me and he doesn’t trust me, and now Scott knows. He told me to tell you how I felt, so here I am. A little late on it, but there it is.”

Derek looks at him, frowning. “But you were the one who said it wasn’t like that. You said it was a _non-issue_. I’ve been…it’s been driving me crazy. I can’t _not_ do feelings but I couldn’t not do _you_ , either. I just don’t get what you’ve been _doing_.”

“I think I was so convinced that you could never even _like_ me that I made it into a competition,” Stiles says slowly, feeling how stupid the words fall off his tongue. “I thought that if I could keep myself from having feelings, I could win. But I don’t think it really works like that, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t,” Derek says heavily. Then, “What do you _want_?”

Stiles huffs, thinking about it. “ _You_?” He shrugs. “I don’t know. Whatever you’ll give me.”

“No,” Derek says, shaking his head. “I didn’t ask you what you’ll take. I asked what you _wanted_.”

“A lot of things,” Stiles says, frowning. “I want my mom to be alive. I want to fall asleep next to you more often. I want my dad to like you. I want everyone to hate us because we make them _sick_ we’re that great of a couple. I want to never see you bleeding or broken or just _empty_. I want to play ‘Your Body is a Wonderland’ for you. I want to kiss you for no reason. I want to kiss you for reasons. And I want to make you _smile_. All the time. I want your face to hurt you do it so much.”

Derek looks at him like it’s too much to take in, which makes sense because it was maybe too much to put out there. There’s an acceptable limit for honesty, but Stiles doesn’t have enough practice to know what that is. 

“What do _you_ want?”

“I just want you to love me. And I know there are things we both want that can’t happen, but that’s all.” He stretches his legs out in front of him, wincing a little and bending them to get the blood flowing. “I know I can’t _expect_ it from you. That’s okay. I just want to know what it’s like. But if you can’t, it’s alright.”

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. “Can I ask you something? And you’ll give me a true answer?” 

Derek nods.

“If I said that I couldn’t love you, would you have sex with me again?”

For a moment, Derek’s very still, and then he ducks his head. “Yes. I would. Until you stopped.”

They’re not okay. 

They’re just not. And Stiles can’t make it all better, at least not immediately. 

He reaches out towards Derek’s hand, then looks at him. “Can I?”

It’s okay, so he takes Derek’s hand in his own, really _holds_ it.

“I’m pretty sure I love you, but I’m going to ask you not to believe me. For now, at least. I don’t want you to feel like you _owe_ me anything for that. But I do need you to promise me one thing. Just one. And then I want to try doing this whole thing the right way, if you don’t mind.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Stiles squeezes his hand. “I need you to promise me you’ll never use me to hurt yourself again.Well, to never hurt yourself again in general. But it’s…Derek, tonight? That was not okay. I don’t want either of us in that situation again.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, turning Stiles hand over. 

“It’s…well, no, it’s not really okay, and it was scary and I’m _still_ worried about you. But I hate seeing you hurt. Just because you can _heal_ doesn’t mean it’s nothing, okay? You’re just as breakable as I am. You just don’t take as long to fix.”

“Okay,” Derek says, nodding. “Alright. If…alright.” 

They sit there for a moment and Stiles rubs his thumb over the back of Derek’s hand. Derek moves his leg over a little so their feet touch. 

“Can we go to bed?” Derek asks. “My ass is numb.”

Stiles grins. “Yeah. Thank God. I don’t think I can feel anything in the lower half of my body.”

When they get up, they both have pins and needles and the first steps are embarrassing. They look like old men. It’s silly, and Stiles laughs at it for no reason, really. 

In the other room, Stiles looks at the bed and sighs. “There’s jizz all over your pillow, dude.”

“Yeah. Yeah, there is.”

They stand there, staring at it, until Derek moves, pulls the pillowcase off and throws it in the corner.

“Can we just sleep?” Stiles asks. “I mean, not to assume you’d want to do any _not_ -sleeping, but I’m kind of wiped.”

“Me too.” He arranges the pillows neatly at the head of the bed. “For the record, the…” he jerks his head at the pillowcase “that was nice. Maybe some other time I could do that for you.”

Stiles smiles as he gets into bed. “Oh, dude, _yeah_. I mean, however you wanna…I’m game is what I mean.” Derek pulls him down next to him, draws him in close with a hand around his back and a small smile curving his mouth. With a little sigh, Stiles wiggles in closer, almost until their chests touch. 

“I don’t know what to do with you. You’re too much for me,” Derek says, and his breath is warm against Stiles’ face. 

“It’s okay,” Stiles tells him, eyes falling closed. “You’re too much for me too.”

 

* * *

 

 

When Stiles wakes up, Derek’s sitting at the table with a box of donuts and two cups of coffee. He’s dressed, but barefoot. 

Stiles walks over to his pants, digs out his phone, and joins him. The stool is cold through the cotton of his underwear, but the coffee’s just the right temperature. 

“I have, let’s see, _seven_ missed calls from my dad. Two from Scott. Which means my dad probably also called _him_. And maybe put out an APB.”

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up and he swallows. “Should I be worried?”

“No. I mean, I shouldn’t have stayed here last night, but I don’t regret it. Can’t win everything. And we’ve been having trouble. Basically since the start of everything. I’ve had to lie to him a lot, to keep him safe, but he doesn’t know that. He still thinks he’s the one who has to protect _me_.”

“What are you going to do?” Derek asks, taking a sip of coffee.

“Talk to him. He threatened me with a polygraph. I’m tempted to do it just so we can be okay again. I don’t really know what to do, to be honest.”

“Well,” Derek says, “if you need me to, I could maybe talk to him. He can’t _actually_ kill me.”

“I’ll have to see. But I should go. I…” he presses a kiss to Derek’s cheek, maybe flushing a little, and gulps down half of his coffee before pulling on his clothes. He’s out the door in a minute, stomach churning, but it’s necessary. It’s going to have to happen.

It’s a Sunday. 

His dad is off this morning. Which means he should be at home. It’s not late or anything. He’ll be home. And Stiles will be able to talk to him. 

 

* * *

 

 

His dad is sitting on the couch when he walks in. Like it’s three AM instead of nine. 

“So, I found this _Danny_ fellow,” his dad says. “Through his arrest record. Scott confirmed it was him. And Danny confirmed that you were nowhere near his house last night or any other night. And here we are. You’ve lied to me, what, _three_ times now about your mystery boyfriend? So I need you to answer me something, and I need you to look me in the eyes when you do it.” Stiles steps forward, hands shaking, and looks him in the eyes. “Tell me: are you selling your body?”

Stiles chokes, shakes his head. “ _God_ , Dad, _no_. It’s not like that, I swear. I can explain—“

His dad holds up a hand to cut him off. “That’s the first true thing you’ve told me in months. So this is how we’re going to do it: I’m going to ask you questions and you’re going to give me a yes or no. And if you lie to me, I swear to _God_ , I will arrest you. Do you hear me?” Stiles nods.

“Are you with him against your will?”

“No.”

“Are you with him because he’s threatening you or someone else?”

“No.”

“Has he ever hurt you?”

Stiles bites his lip. “Not on purpose. And not the way you’re thinking.”

“Yes or no, Stiles: Has he ever _hurt_ you?”

“Yes.”

The lines on his dad’s face deepen. “Is he the reason I run into you at crime scenes?”

“No.” That’s _technically_ true, thank God.

“Does _he_ know why I run into you at crime scenes?”

“Yes.”

“Do I know him?”

“Yes.”

“Have I ever arrested him?”

Stiles winces. “Yes. But he was never charged with anything.”

“Are you ever going to tell me why you’re involved with _whatever the hell it is you’re involved with_? Or are you waiting for me to walk into something you can’t explain?”

“Both. Maybe. I don’t know.”

His dad sighs, rubs his face.

“Look, Dad, I came here to tell you. I _want_ to tell you. But it’s really complicated. And I don’t know how to tell you in a way that you’ll believe. But I’ll tell you who he is, if it helps.”

“Honestly? I don’t even know if I _want_ to know.” He shakes his head. “No, strike that, I do. I just don’t want another lie. And I’m worried about what I’m going to do to him.”

“He’s never hurt me on purpose,” Stiles says. “He’s a _good_ person. He’s just had a lot of bad stuff happen to him. And I don’t know him all the way, not yet, but I know what kind of guy he is. I know that he’s done a lot to protect me. I feel safe with him.” 

His dad looks at him, looks away. Looks back. 

“I am going to make you this offer just the once, hear me?” he asks, and Stiles nods. “You can introduce us today. Lunch. At wherever he lives. And you’ll tell me everything that’s going on. You will tell me the _truth_. And if you do all of that, there will be _no consequences_. So long as you never lie to me again.”

Stiles nods. “When? Eleven? Noon?” he asks, pulling out his phone.

“Noon is a good time for lunch. On the dot.” His dad sighs so heavy it hurts. “Stay here until we leave. I’ll check on you. Regularly. You won’t like it if you run.”

Swallowing thickly, Stiles nods again and heads upstairs. 

It’s not a brave thing, he doesn’t think, but he cries then. Gives himself three minutes to sob very quietly into his pillow. And then he decides that he’s going to be strong.

 

* * *

 

 

His dad doesn’t like the look of the building Derek’s loft is in. 

Probably because only about a third of it is occupied. 

It’s not _classy_ , and Stiles made that point over the summer. About the hole in the wall and the fact that he’s six floors above the nearest person. True, it makes it a better secret lair place, but he’s pretty sure that one of these days, some undercover cop’s going to think they’re running drugs out of the place.

He doesn’t tell his dad _any_ of this, just gets into the elevator, hits the button for the top floor. The elevator lurches and hums and it’s the longest this ride has ever felt. And Stiles has had some _long_ rides in this elevator.

When he knocks, he doesn’t think about the fact that he’s been pressed against this door. (Much.)

“ _Just a minute!_ ” Derek calls, and Stiles tries not to freak out. His dad is probably judging really hard but maybe he doesn’t recognize Derek’s voice. That’ll give Stiles another few seconds of mercy, at least. 

When Derek answers, his dad stiffens, hand unconsciously going to his belt, where his gun would be.

All in all, it’s not fair to Derek.

Because Derek looks _nice_. Weirdly nice. Like, he’s wearing a collared shirt. With a dishtowel thrown over his shoulder. And it looks like he’s taken a trimmer to his face. It’s still stubbly, but a little less mountain man. 

“Hale,” his dad says, and Stiles isn’t sure if it’s an accusation or acknowledgment.

Derek lets them in and Stiles tries not to show his surprise. 

Because there are _throw pillows_. 

And cloth napkins on the table.

And _magazines_. 

And _a stovetop_. 

 _What the hell_.

Stiles’ mouth is open, and when he catches Derek’s eye, he mouths _Peter_. 

It’s fucking _weird_ is what it is.

Derek serves them pasta and Stiles tries not to brain himself on the table because _what the fuck_. All of the silverware matches. The plates aren't the chipped ones from Goodwill. 

_It looks like Derek’s actually a functioning human being._

His dad isn’t _impressed_ , but he should be. If he’d known…well, it’s for the best that he didn’t.  Because he looks almost not-murderous when they all sit down together.

“So, Derek, how do you feel about statutory rape?” his dad asks, and Stiles chokes on his tortellini.

“Are you going to arrest me?”

Stiles’ dad shrugs. “Probably not until after lunch, at the very least.”

“Hopefully, by that time, you won’t find a reason to.”

“Doubtful. Very doubtful. Unless, somehow, my son ages a year and a half during the course of our conversation. And he stops being my son.”

Derek nods, then looks at Stiles. “I know it’s not my place to tell you to do this, but I think you should tell him. I’ll help you.” His foot nudges Stiles’ ankle affectionately. 

“I…” Stiles can’t look at his dad and he’s afraid and he doesn’t _want to do this_. “If he knows, he can’t ever _un_ know. He’ll be at risk. I don’t want that for him.”

“This is the first time _this year_ that we haven’t had a threat hanging over us. If there’s a time, it’s now. He has time to prepare now. You can ask Chris for help.” He reaches over the table, where Stiles’ dad can see, and squeezes his hand. “You won’t _have_ to protect him anymore. You won’t have to _worry_ anymore.”

Stiles shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, then looks at his dad. At the wrinkles that’ve gotten worse over the past year, at the permanent frown, at the question in his eyes. 

“Dad,” he asks, holding tight to Derek’s hand, “what do you know about werewolves?”

* * *

**Thank you for reading, darlings!**

**You can always say hi at[my tumblr](http://majestic-beard.tumblr.com/)! **

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONSENT ISSUES HERE ALRIGHT  
> one character is consenting through action but obviously not mentally -- this character is kissed before they give verbal consent and mentally consent  
> one character initiates in a sexual act that is physically painful for them, not achieving consent of the other party (who is not harmed, but is emotionally distressed) and at first ignores their objections  
> unhealthy levels of dependency  
> mentions of suicide in a stupid teenage boy way  
> ableist language

**Author's Note:**

> Consent issues in this chapter:
> 
> non-verbalized consent (at first)  
> underage character

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(podfic of) The Worst Thing I Ever Did](https://archiveofourown.org/works/883420) by [factorielle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/factorielle/pseuds/factorielle), [neverbalance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverbalance/pseuds/neverbalance)




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